


Tumblr Prompts

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Individual Tags at the Beginning of Each Chapter, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 39,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Any tumblr prompt under 3k will be counted as 'drabble' and posted here. Individual warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 224





	1. Peter/Tony "Hands"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff.
> 
> Prompt: Tony can’t keep their hands in one place appropriate place on Peter, or vice versa if you prefer. Bonus points if Peter holds Tony’s hand against his crotch and grinds against it until he comes, or vice versa.

“—actually found last season’s watches to be quite gauche, and I am fully aware the irony of that statement, coming from the likes of me—”

“Oh, no, I quite agree. I thought Patek Phillipe overstepped their usual nostalgic overtones—”

Tony (who is actually, really, honestly participating in a conversation he enjoys for once—truly a rarity at these galas, at least) feels Peter’s warm presence come up from behind him. A hand, burning hot, laces its fingers with his own and he smiles even as he keeps his eyes on the man he’s discussing watches with. Then Peter draws his hand around his waist to nestle himself under Tony’s arm. It’s domestic, and the man Tony’s conversing with doesn’t bat an eye at the display. But then Peter takes Tony’s hand and nudges it down, down to the pert swell of his ass.

And okay—that’s it.

“I’m sorry, Vic, could you please excuse me for a moment?”

“Absolutely—”

Tony pulls Peter along by the hand firmly, crossing the room with purpose. Outside of the ballroom, he begins opening doors (“Tony? What’s wrong? What are you looking for?”) until he finds an empty room and pulls Peter inside, shutting the door behind them. There’s no lock, but that’s fine. They won’t be long.

“What’s with the hands, Pete?” Tony asks, pinning Peter to the door. That’s one way to make sure no one comes in. The room is dim, a window against the other wall that lets moonlight in, but Tony doesn’t bother searching for a switch. He presses his young lover to the door, unbuttoning the waist of his jacket and slipping his hands beneath the suit to wear the white dress shirt clings to Peter’s muscles. The kid gasps, head jolting back against the door.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You think I haven’t noticed? You put my hand on your thigh at dinner. You made me grope you during our dance—I think a reporter got some nice shots of that too, by the way, can hardly wait to see it. All night, you’ve been craving my touch, but you haven’t asked for it, baby. You know you have to use your words to get what you want.”

Peter whines. His hips are already thrusting forward gently, and even through his jacket and pants Tony can feel the bulge and heat from Peter’s erection. “Sorry,” Peter breaths. But he doesn’t sound sorry.

Tony pulls back. He straightens his suit. Peter watches with eyes dark from arousal, his mouth parted and wet. Tony holds out his hand, and Peter tentatively raises his own so they can clasp—but Tony just tsks, pulling his hand back.

“No baby. You wanted my hands so badly? You can have it.” He moves his palm down until it hovers in front of Peter’s aching cock. “Go ahead baby. Grind yourself against me. Get yourself off. _There’s_ my good boy—hush baby, you don’t want everyone to hear, do you? Keep going, yes, _yes_ —and next time you’ll ask me when you’re needy, understand? No, don’t try to speak. Just keep grinding.”


	2. Peter/Tony "Princess"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. Daddy kink. Mentions of torture. 
> 
> Prompt: Starker prompt: Mafiaboss!Tony gets home after a loooong day and has to take care of his little abandoned baby boy ~

Tony enters the penthouse with two things on his mind: extra strength aspirin and his bed. Every joint in him aches, especially the fingers on his hand which had been wielding the pliers he used to extract teeth from Rumlow’s goon’s mouth; god, he was getting old. There were days in his youth when he could extract a full set of teeth without getting a cramp in the fleshiest part of his palm. He needed to continue looking into Extremis—

He hears the heels first, sharps clicks on the marble floors that precede the entrance of his baby boy. Tony doesn’t even have the strength to arrange his face into a pleasant expression, and any patience he scrapes together between his two aching hands disappears at the sight of the boy. Peter stands at the top of the stairs in his robe and heels. His curls are soft and groomed, hair long enough to touch the tips of his ears. He looks like the softest, sweetest creature to ever crawl up from the depths of hell, but his arms are crossed petulantly over his chest, his chin up, eyes narrowed.

“Daddy,” he says stiffly, coming down the stairs carefully. “I’m very angry with you.”

“Is this my welcome home?” Tony asks, leaning back in his chair. “How about you bring daddy some aspirin and a sparkling water. He’s had quite the day.”

Peter eyes the blood splatter on the white cuffs of his dress shirt, nose scrunching delicately. “That’s clear. But I’ve had quite the day as well.”

“Really?” Tony asks wryly. “Did you spend the day trying on all your lipsticks? Flirting with the guards? Napping at noon? How stressful baby. Now get me that aspirin.”

Peter’s nostrils flair. “I spend the whole day here alone. You didn’t even kiss me before you left this morning—”

“You were asleep!”

“That hardly matters! I don’t know why I bother staying with you. I—I should just pack my bags. Go somewhere else for a while. Maybe to Toomes or Rumlow—”

Tony sits up in his seat so quickly that his neck pops. He can’t imagine the expression on his face, but it makes Peter’s own go white. “You should know I don’t like to be threatened, Peter,” Tony says darkly. “You aren’t going anywhere, not if I have anything to say about it. Except maybe your room. Because daddy is not in the mood to play with you.”

Peter nods to himself, chin set. His lips are trembling a little, so he presses them together tightly. Up this close, Tony sees that the boy is wearing mascara—something he only puts on in an attempt to keep himself from crying. All at once, confronted with the sadness of his precious gem, the anger and weariness goes out of Tony. He softens.

“Hey,” he says, scooting in his chair. “Come sit on my lap.”

Peter doesn’t even look at him. Just sits primly on Tony’s knee like it’s a fucking pew at church, not his daddy’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” Tony murmurs, wrapping his arms around Peter and trying to coax him into relaxing. “I really did have a hard day. No progress. It makes me—”

“A jerk,” Peter mutters.

“I was going to say something a little meaner, but yes, that fits. I didn’t mean to snap at you, Pete. I—” Tony swallows, his mouth dry. “—you know that I wouldn’t stop you, right? If you truly wanted to leave. I want you to be happy, darling. I know this isn’t an easy lifestyle.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Peter says softly. He melts a little, close enough for Tony to bury his nose in the kid’s neck and smell the floral perfume there. “I want you to make me happy. Here.”

“I’ll do better,” Tony promises to the both of them. “Is there any way I can make it up to you, sweetheart?”

Peter hums, untying the sash on his robe. “I can think of _one_ way, daddy.”


	3. Peter/Tony "Fire"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None
> 
> Firefighter! Tony stark x highschool teacher, request

The call comes in at ten past ten in the morning: the old half of Elm Tree Elementary is on fire. Tony isn’t surprised. Built in the late 1800’s, the school is old as dirt—hence the newer building they attached for the younger students. How the thing hasn’t been shut down due to health code violations (don’t even try telling him it isn’t infested with asbestos), Tony has no clue.

“It’s gonna be dust in the wind before we even get there,” Bucky mutters stepping into his boots.

“But maybe we can save the newer half,” Steve insists, his pretty face grave. 

Within minutes of the call coming in, they are dressed and on the truck, maneuvering through traffic. They can see the smoke from blocks away, and Tony thinks Bucky might be right: how much of the school is even going to be left when he gets there?

In the parking lot are 600 students of varying ages, watching the school burn with intermingled interest and glee and fascination. A few are crying—they’re just kids after all. Tony’s heart clenches for them, and for the teachers who’d had to usher them out. In a heartbeat, they are off the truck and scrambling into motion. Steve immediately puts in a request for more than the other two trucks from the station that have followed. If he can, he’ll get every fire truck in New York City here to try to save the school.

As they get off the truck, they are bombarded by two dozen first graders grabbing at their jackets, all shouting over each other, tears in their eyes. Tony kneels down, singles one of them out, and asks them to explain what everyone is frantic about—

“It’s Mr. Parker,” the girl says, eyes wide and red. “After he got us out and did headcount, he went back in.”

“ _What_?” Tony asks. “Why? Where did he go?”

That’s how Tony and Bucky end up going room to room in the old section of the school, desperately searching for a ‘brown haired’ teacher who is ‘real, real nice’. _That’s helpful,_ Bucky had muttered.

The smoke is heavy here, though no flames have reached this hallway and section of classrooms. Tony bursts through a door, sure that there will just be tiny desks and cubby holes and abandoned snacks when he is met with the sight of the prettiest young man he’s ever seen. Mr. Peter Parker must be fresh out of college, eyes wide and brown, skin pale and clear. He looks at Tony with wide eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” He shouts to make sure he is heard through his mask. “Notice anything funny about this place? It’s about to combust!”

Peter’s face hardens. Tony takes the time to look and see that he is standing in front of a two dozen large terrariums. One hand is poised above the cages—and it’s holding a scrabbling, wriggling mouse by the pink tail.

“I couldn’t leave them!” Peter says, a fire in his eyes to rival the building’s.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony asks, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “They’re mice! You’re gonna die for some mice?”

“Not if you get over here and help me!”


	4. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Soulmate"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Daddy kink.
> 
> Prompt: Tony and Peter are soulmates but SURPRISE so is Bucky and it's now a triad. /

“I think God hates me,” Tony mutters, three scotches in. His tolerance used to be better than this, but five years of near-sobriety and suddenly he’s back at square one it seems. Or maybe his liver just can’t handle what it used to—well it can join the fucking club, along with his knees and his eyes and his stomach and his life, all the other things that are breaking down lately. He glances over at Peter who is laying on the couch, shirtless, tracing the second soulmark, the one that appeared on both of them five hours before, just after Bucky left their apartment post Star Wars marathon. The look on his face is dreamy, dazed. “It doesn’t make any sense. Right? No sense. Nonsensical.”

“Makes perfect sense, I think,” Peter murmurs, smiling a little.

“How so?”

“He makes you laugh. You make him laugh. He’s the only person who you shut up for. You don’t even do that for me.” Peter’s smile shows that he isn’t saying it with malice, so Tony doesn’t take offense. He talks a lot. Duh. “Whenever he talks, you get quiet. You sit forward at the table to try to hear him, even when all the other Avengers are in the way. He interests you.”

“And what about you,” Tony asks. He doesn’t bother refuting any of that, because it’s all true to a degree. He can’t help that Bucky is so goddamn quiet, though—if Tony doesn’t lean forward and hush all the other Avengers, it’s likely the guy’s voice will be swallowed up whole. Maybe there is something there, between them. But what about Peter? “Tell me. Why did you get a mark, too, then?”

Peter blinks. “Because I love him, I guess. I love him because you love him, even if you won’t admit it. I love him because he loves you. Also—have you seen the guy? Total dark daddy material.”

Tony squawks. “Excuse me? I’m the daddy here!”

“Oh yes,” Peter sighs, dreamily. “He thinks so too. We texted about it.”

“You—what—Peter. We’ve talked about this. I’m oblivious to many social cues, and you can’t use it against me.” Tony gets quiet, swirling the scotch in his glass. It’s getting a little low, but he thinks this might be the last one. Staring down at the city, he imagines how different this all much be to Bucky. The world is so different than the one he was born into. “I’m going to have to buy him something. What do you think he’d like, Pete? A car? No—a motorcycle.”

Peter groans. “I knew I loved you for a reason. You have all the good ideas. Then he can take us for rides—”

“Are you wiggling your eyebrows, because it sounds like—”

“Oh yes I am, absolutely—”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony laughs. He feels jittery with nerves. He’s accepting this. The marks appeared. Their connection has been seen by whatever deity decides to fuck with their personal lives, and it’s been cemented in them now. There’s no undoing it.

When there is a firm knock on the penthouse door, Tony hardly needs to ask FRIDAY who it is. Bucky stands there, drenched from the rain, and the look on his face—it’s a look that Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. He steps aside, and let’s Bucky in.


	5. Peter/Tony "Bath"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None.
> 
> Prompt: Hurt/comfort where Tony gives Peter a bath after a mission goes wrong.

“Jay,” Tony murmurs to the ceiling, his eyes stuck on the boy in his arms. “Start a bath.”

“As you wish, sir,” the AI responds. Even in the main room, Tony can hear the sound of the faucet starting in the en-suite bathroom. Peter has his own room in the tower (with its own bathroom and bathtub) but JARVIS had started the tub in _Tony’s_ room. He’d created the AI to be capable of making it’s own deductions based on observed data. What had Jay observed that told him Tony wanted the kid in Tony’s own room?

Sometimes, his creations knew him too well.

It takes work to carry the kid into the bathroom. He’s a short, slight thing, but is made entirely of muscle. Tony is only human, not super like Steve or Bucky or Pete himself. He doesn’t make a practice of carrying people around—hasn’t, for the last twenty years or so—though the memories come back as he crosses the threshold to his bedroom, as his instincts almost have him carrying Peter to the center of the King bed.

Jesus. The kid is just nineteen years old. Maybe Tony’s finally losing it in his advanced (advanced) age. This obsession he has for the younger man grows all the time, worse than ivy, crawling up his legs and in between his ribs right to his heart. It doesn’t help that everyone knows about the flame Peter carries for Tony, that the kid is as subtle as the car that clipped him tonight during their fight with some domestic terrorists on the Freeway.

Tony’s about as good for the kid as the car was, he thinks, staring down at Peter’s filthy, bruised body.

The rushing water in the bathroom rouses Peter. His eyes crack open. “’m I still in the river?” he asks.

The river he’d slid into after being hit by the car and falling ( _spectacularly_ , as Clint described it) off of the overpass.

“No, kid, you’re in my bathroom.”

“Cool,” Peter mumbles. “I’m not ‘sleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Conserve your energy, Pete. Bruce says that you’ll be exhaustion while your body focuses all of its energy on repairing itself. I’m going to strip the suit off of you. I bet I can have it completely repaired before you’ve healed. What do you think?”

Peter smiles with his eyes closed. It makes Tony’s heart clench—with warmth, with relief, with adoration. “’m not wearing any clothes under the suit Mr. Stark.”

“Of _course_ you aren’t,” Tony mutters. Because of _course_. “I’ll shut my eyes kid. But we’ve got to scrub the Bay off of you. You’re repairing internal injuries which are most severe, but you’ve got some open wounds that your body clearly thinks are secondary. I don’t want them infected.”

“I’ll try not to s’duce you.”

Tony snorts. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do if you turned the full force of your charm on me now.”

“Y’d be helpless,” Peter mutters. “Gonna rest my mouth now.”


	6. Peter/Tony "Cosplay"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Suggestive Language. 
> 
> Prompt: Peter and Tony as strangers meeting at a comic con in complimentary outfits and flirting in character (that turns into actual flirting)

“Here you are,” the bartender says, sitting a draft in front of Peter. He folds up the mask of his Spiderman costume to rest just above the bridge of his nose, giving the guy a thumbs up in thanks. The bar is swamped, and the man doesn’t even get the chance to reply before he’s swept away by the needs of other customers. Who knew that a con exclusively for 21+ adults would be so popular, Peter wonders, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Someone takes the bottle from his hand. “Excuse me,” the man says, his voice like liquid smoke. “I know you aren’t old enough to be drinking that, kid.”

Peter glances over and laments pulling his mask up—because there’s no way he can pretend his mouth isn’t dropped. It’s the perfect Iron Man cosplay. Not suited Iron Man like the dozen other people here, with their plastic suits that glint under the lights of the bar. This guy is dressed as Robert Downey himself, the goatee is perfectly formed, the sunglasses look expenses and authentic, the suit is immaculate, except for the worn band t-shirt that he wears underneath.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whines, tugging his mask back down. “Come on. I’m eighteen.”

“You can use that excuse next time I whisk you off to Germany, but not here on US soil.”

God, the guy is good. He even sounds like the guy. If it weren’t for the subtle differences, he’s almost think that Downey was here, himself, fucking with cosplayers in the New York area. Where’s the camera, Peter wonders. Are we being Punk’d?

Despite the teasing words, the guy gives Peter back his drink. Peter paid for it, and if Peter’s here, he’s obviously been carded and is old enough to drink it. “I guess you can live a little,” Iron Man sighs, leaning against the bar next to him. The guy is stocky but fit, just a tad taller than Peter. The sunglasses aren’t dark enough to obscure the way he rakes his eyes up and down Peter’s tight costume.

“Can I?” He asks, voice infused with as much faux innocence as is acceptable. “Thank you, Mr. Downey. While I have your undivided attention, can I just say how much I love the suit? It highlights all my best assets, don’t you think?”

Iron Man hums. “Do a turn for me, kid. Let me get the whole effect.”

Peter does as the guy asks, can almost feel those dark eyes lingering on his shapely legs. And yeah, his ass looks great. MJ told him before he left their apartment. He’s been working on this costume for months since they announced the 21+con in NYC. It’s good to know that it’s coming in handy. When he finally stops turning, the man doesn’t even pretend like he isn’t staring at Peter’s abs—or is he looking lower, at his cock.

“How about I buy you a drink?” he offers.

“I already have one,” Peter teases. “But I’m sure there’s something else you could do for me. My name’s Peter.”

The man is so handsome when he smiles, gently taking Peter’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Peter. And if you’re interested, the name I want to hear you calling tonight is _Tony_.”


	7. Peter/Tony "Devotee"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape. Extremely Dubious Consent (though not between Starker).
> 
> Prompt: devotee peter and god!tony....Peter's first time performing a ritual maybe?

Peter pulls his mouth off of the hard cock in front of him. His throat aches and eyes stream, turning the figure above him into a misty demon. “How much longer?” Peter rasps, lips trembling. The taste of cum, acrid, is on the back of his tongue and he wants to be sick with it.

“Just a few more cocks to suck,” the boy above him barks, tightening his hold on Peter’s curls and pressing his mouth back towards his erection. Peter seals his lips so the thing just bumps against his closed mouth. The boy—another teenager from Peter’s classes—softens his tone, though it offers Peter no comfort. “Come on, Petey. Don’t you want to meet him? He’s a god, Pete. He’s the god this whole city prays to—”

In the background are three other boys. They’ve been taking turns for an hour, stroking themselves hard and then fucking into Peter’s mouth to cum down his throat. One of them is still catching his breath, but the other two are already hard again, eagerly waiting their next chance. One of them mutters to the other, pitching his voice to mock Peter: “I always hate this part. _How much longer, how many more?”_

“What’s he talking about?” Peter shouts, voice wrecked. He slaps at the cock in front of him and sends Flash howling, bent at the waist, taking Peter with him thanks to the vicious grip on his hair. “ _What the fuck Flash? Are you all fucking with me?”_

“Goddamnit—will you dumbasses shut up back there? You _blew_ it—”

“Peter blew it,” one of them snickers. “Multiple times.”

“He would have kept going!” Flash bellows. He pushes Peter and sends the younger boy skidding across the marble floor of the temple. It’s eerie there after dark, when it’s closed and there is no one around to worship the statues. Above them stands the statue of fertility and love, a handsome, male-appearing figure with eyes that Peter imagines are dark and a voice that could make him melt. Peter stares up at it while the boys behind him argue. His eyes are rubbed raw from crying, his stomach churning. He should have known that Flash was playing a prank—his cruelest, most vicious trick yet. This wouldn’t make Peter’s god appear. It was just to hurt him, to humiliate him, to subjugate him—

Something falls from above landing at Peter’s feet. He picks it up with trembling fingers. It’s hard—a piece of marble. Another falls. A strange sound can be heard just beneath the bickering boys behind him, and when Peter looks up, his mouth drops agape. The statue is cracking, pieces falling off like shells from a boiled egg, and underneath is flesh, tanned. It’s a man.

The voices behind him die off all at once as the marble crumbles to dust and the god steps down from the pedestal, completely naked. He’s beautiful, everything the stories made him out to be, everything Peter dreamed. He has facial hair, and while this wasn’t ever a detail Peter dreamt of, he finds himself charmed completely by it. The god kneels, offering him a hand. Shaking, Peter takes it.

“I’m sorry, honeysuckle,” the god says. His voice washes over Peter, and it’s like it heals him. His stomach no longer churns, there is no ache in his throat, his face is dry and eyes clear. “It’s hard work, breaking through that marble.”

“You’re real,” Flash breathes from behind him. “The god of fertility, virility, love—”

“And vengeance,” the god says, his handsome face twisting with a look of hate so potent it makes Peter shutter. With a brush of the god’s fingers, Peter finds himself clothed, warm. Safe. “Sex in my name, in my temple? I commend it. But that wasn’t sex. It was _rape_. So tell me, Peter. About vengeance. Where should we start, my flower?”

Peter raises a trembling finger and points it right at Flash.


	8. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Worth"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Not Steve Rogers Friendly.
> 
> Prompt: If you're still looking for asks for WinterIronSpider ... Tony survived End Game and is reunited with his precious boyfriend Peter - selfish Steve still abandons Bucky to return to the past. Our precious boys are horrified by Steve's actions and make it their aim to shower Bucky with love and affection to show him he is definitely worth staying around for. Hope it sparks your interest. 😍 Hugs, BAMF anon

They are all piling into two black SUVs when Tony does a headcount and sees that someone is missing. He runs through the current Avengers roster mentally, checking boxes as people claim their seats: Nat, Clint, Rhodey and Carol, Thor (struggling with his seatbelt), Bruce, Sam, Peter beside Tony. So who is missing, Tony wonders. He frowns. Who besides the obvious, of course—Steve’s absence is felt by all of them keenly these days, the lovesick fool—then it hits him.

“Where’s Spearmint?” Tony asks. “He confirmed that he would be free for dinner tonight—”

“Bucky was running late,” Natasha says, her eyes meeting Tony’s through the rearview mirror. “He said that he’d meet us at the restaurant.”

If it were anyone else, that would be that. But this is Bucky. His relationship with the other tenants in the Tower has been cordial though a little distant. More than once, Tony has been enjoying himself with the group (Peter a warm, chatty presence at his side) only to glance off and see Bucky on the outskirts, his head down, looking more than a little left out. One night, Peter came to bed saying that he’d caught Bucky asleep on the communal couch with an old documentary about Captain America on. When Tony reached out (because Tony can’t ever leave anything alone, especially handsome ex-assassins who are more melancholy than they should be), trying to talk to Bucky about the Steve-shaped hole in all of their lives, Bucky had just hunched his shoulders. _I saw it comin’ from a mile away,_ he’d said. _He didn’t have nothing to stay for._

Tony hadn’t known how to put his hurt into words—how to express that Bucky was worth staying for.

“Tony?” Peter asks, unbuckling his belt when Tony lingers, his hand on the car door. “Are we waiting?”

We. Tony can’t help but smile. Their relationship is new; it’d taken Tony time to come to terms with how many years had passed for Peter and the others while they were ‘dusted’. While the young man had matured in many ways, his kindness and compassion had never changed.

“Yeah, sunbeam.” Then to the rest of the SUV: “You guys go on ahead. We’re going to wait for Bucky. We’ll catch up.”

Up on the communal floor of Tower, FRIDAY informs them that Bucky is still in the shower after his workout. They wait together, lounging on the couch, talking about what they’re planning to order for dinner, whether they should text the group and have them order for them to make up for time, and all the time Peter is asking _Why couldn’t we have just ordered in and had Chinese? We’d save so much money._

Bucky comes out of his room with his hair wet and dripping. The t-shirt he’s wearing sticks to him. Someone needs to give the man a lesson about properly drying off in the shower. He looks startled to see Tony and Peter sitting on the couch together, his pale eyes wide. “What are you two doing here?” he asks. Confusion coaxes his dark brows together. “Was dinner canceled?”

“No, not canceled,” Tony says, smiling. “We just wanted to wait for you.”

“No man left behind,” Peter adds.

Bucky flushes. He can’t meet their eyes. “You didn’t have to do that for me. I—I woulda been fine.”

“Didn’t have to,” says Tony. “Just made a choice. Come on—the cars have left which means we get to take one of our own. Personally, I’m craving the touch and handling of the Bugatti, but I’m open to suggestions—anybody? No? Tough crowd, Jesus, okay.”


	9. Tony/Peter "Winter"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None.
> 
> Prompt: Peter and Tony going on a winter date and getting hot chocolate.

When Tony pulls up to the curb outside Peter’s apartment with his aunt in Queens, the kid is standing on the steps, breath pluming out in front of him, hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. Thoughts drift in and out of Tony’s brain, a never-ending sieve: _he needs a new coat, Valentino, something fresh off the runway, those steps can’t be safe at all considering they don’t even look salted, it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, what’s the kid even doing out in the cold anyway, fuck he looks so, so handsome._

“Not to lack chivalry, but FRI can you get the door for me, baby?” Tony asks. The passenger door opens before Peter’s hand can brush it. When the kid gets in, he has snowflakes in his hair, cheeks and nose red and flushed. Tony pulls away from the curb before he begins to chide the younger man. “What’d I tell you, kid? I said to wait for me inside. It’s fifteen degrees out and snowing. Did that spider bite give you thermal properties I’m not aware of?”

“Are you calling me hot?” Peter asks, his eyes glittering. “Call me kid one more time and I’m going to take the steering wheel in a way Jesus wouldn’t approve of.”

Tony clears his throat. He’d promised Peter that he would take the young man out—out, out, as Peter called it—when he was home after the fall semester at MIT ended. He’d promised to even the playing field between them, to get rid of those monikers that made Peter feel so young and Tony feel so old. Not even three minutes into their first date, and he’s already breaking his promises.

“Sorry, Pete,” Tony says at length. “Old habits. I’ll make a better effort.”

Peter softens. He reaches over the center console and pats his hand on top of Tony’s where the older man’s rests against the gear shift, skin warm and soft. “I was mostly teasing. So are you really going to let me go into this blind? I can’t have even a little hint about where we’re going?”

“Here’s your hint: you will at least be warmer than you were out on your steps.”

Peter hums. “Streaking through Central Park is out then. I already can’t wait for this date to be over, I’m so disappointed—”

“I can do a U-turn if you’d like?”

“Oh, would you? That’d be great—”

“Maybe drop you off right in Central Park?”

“Perfect. Thanks so much.”

“No problem. I’m sure I can find a vendor nearby, get myself some coffee and find a nice bench to watch you streak past.”

Peter stifles his smile with his hand. “You know—that’s starting to sound a little more like a third date to me. Maybe I’ll stick around and see what you have in mind for this one, first.”

Parking in New York City should be a nightmare, but it’s not for people as rich as Tony. He finds a private garage that will house his Audi and they walk the last half-block, their hands brushing gently between them. Tony clenches the hand that’s tucked inside his coat into a fist—he hasn’t been this nervous for a first date since he was a teenager. Snow falls and sprinkles Peter’s hair again. It’s so hard to look away.

“This is the place,” Tony says, nodding to a cozy little place on their right. He holds the door open, the warm smell of chocolate drifting out onto the street.

Inside, it is warmly lit, with a real fireplace that is crackling at the side of the room. The tables are dark wood, shined to gleam in the hanging lights. There are fairy lights too, strung up along the eaves, and Tony knows that they aren’t there all year long. Just a festive touch for the winter holidays.

“What is this place?” Peter asks, licking his lips at the delicious scents he can almost taste: cinnamon, chocolate, cream, caramel and more.

“It’s a hot chocolate bar. One of the only ones in New York—see the machines along the wall? All full of different kinds of hot chocolate. You’ve got your various cocoa powders, chocolate shavings with every percentage. Spices, syrups, whipped creams—whatever you could imagine putting into a cup of cocoa and hopefully a few things you haven’t before. So, what do you think? Worth staying and trying it out, or should we head home?”

Peter looks up at him with huge eyes, snowflakes melting in his hair. “Do they have marshmallows?”

“ _Do they have_ —it’d be a crime if they didn’t, Pete. Come on, I’ll show you how it works.” 


	10. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Soulmate II"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None.
> 
> Prompt: Hi! If your taking prompts - winterironspider - Tony and Bucky are soulmates looking for their third and they run into Peter out of the blue one day.

**Where are you?**

Tony watches the text conversation, willing the bubbles to appear that show Bucky is typing. His soulmate hasn’t made contact in six hours, and Tony is one more anxious thought away from breaking his promise to the man and tracking his phone. Just as his mouth is opening to ask FRIDAY to make a search for him, the bubbles appear and Tony’s heart both sags with relief and clenches with more anxiety.

Bucky just sends him an address. Tony is familiar enough with the area to know that it is in Queens, but not familiar enough to know what the location is off the top of his head. When he asks his favorite girl, she tells him that it’s the location of a local coffee shop.

**You’ve been getting coffee for six hours?**

**Come and see.**

So that’s how Tony finds himself—wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap—walking into a coffee shop in Queens. The place is quaint but warm, the atmosphere vague enough to hint at nostalgia even in Tony’s heart, though it is nothing like the cold home he grew up in. Bucky is impossible to miss, a tall, built mass sitting at a table in the corner. In front of him sit no less than two coffee cups and the wrappers of half a dozen muffins.

Tony can’t read his soulmate’s face. It is drawn and serious (typical for Bucky) but there is something about it that makes Tony feel soft and sad all over. Standing over the table, Tony whips off his sunglasses before taking a seat. “Hey, polar bear. I see your leg is jumping under the table. How much coffee have you had?”

“Don’t look,” Bucky says quietly. “But he’s behind the counter.”

“Who?” Tony asks, racking his brain to try to remember if he’d caught a glimpse of the barista working. Maybe he remembered a cracking little voice welcoming him when he came in, but there’s no face in his mind. He’d been too focused on Bucky.

“Peter B. Parker,” Bucky says, his lips barely moving.

The hairs on Tony’s arms stand up. He flexes the fingers on his left hand by instinct, his left hand, the hand with the wrist that is circled by two lines thin as wires. Where the pale green and purple veins cross his wrists, there are two names intersecting the lines. James B. Barnes and Peter B. Parker.

“I saw our names,” Bucky continues. He wiggles his metal fingers. “But he didn’t see mine, obviously.”

“Both?”

“Both. _Both_.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Tony asks, his heart pounding. How many months had they spent together looking for their third before Bucky admitted how afraid he was—how he was worried that maybe Peter was for Tony but Peter wasn’t for him. That Tony would choose Peter over Bucky. Out of respect, Tony had ended the search, content to let fate bring him and Peter together when it willed. Now they could see that their fears had been for nothing; anyone with a piece of Tony’s heart would have a piece of Bucky’s as well.

“Just got caught up watchin’ him. He’s a doll, Tony. So polite to the customers that come in, even the bastards. He should have kicked me out hours ago but just keeps coming to check on me and see how I’m doing. He’s so fucking pretty, Tony, so goddamn pretty.”

“I have to look,” Tony says. “Even if it blows our cover, but I’ll try to be subtle, okay Snowflake?”

“No need, here—”

And then there is a shadow falling over their table. Tony glances up, heart and breath-stopping all at once. The young man must be in his early twenties, a hair shorter than Tony, with riotous dark curls and eyes of amber. He smiles when Tony glances up, revealing neat, white teeth. The nametag on his shirt is pinned there upside down, but he is Peter P.

“Hi,” says Peter. “Can I help you?”

Tony clears his throat. He glances at Bucky, reaches out to take the man’s metal hand and lace their fingers together. When he looks back at Peter, the kid’s eyes are soft watching their conjoined hands—and then he spots the names on Tony’s wrist, and his eyes widen, mouth opening, pen and notepad that had been poised in his hands falling.

“Yes,” Tony says simply. “I think you can.”


	11. Peter/Tony "Gala"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None
> 
> Prompt: The first time Tony takes his much younger boyfriend Peter to a gala.

It’s a terrible night.

Peter isn’t sure how he expected any different. The gala is in celebration of Stark Industries wrapping up their most recent Stark Expo, an event that raised nearly one billion dollars for medical research in the four months it ran. Peter had been much more comfortable there among the different showcases. In his second year at MIT, some of his classmates had been present, presenting their research projects. Peter had been offered a spot but given it up—let other students have the position, ones who weren’t already guaranteed to get funding for their projects because they were in love with a billionaire.

The expo—fabulous. The gala—stifling. From the moment the limousine doors opened, cameras have been on him and Tony, especially interested in capturing images of them together in their first public event as boyfriends. Pepper had been meticulous when she briefed them over the etiquette for tonight right down to the matching cufflinks they were meant to wear (“But no matching ties—you’re boyfriends who coordinate, not Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.”).

Inside the gala, it’s like Peter is the cufflinks. He is a fancy piece of decoration on Tony, a tasteful element that really ties the whole goddamn look together. Tony introduces him to everyone they encounter, but few do more than rake their eyes up and down him. Their faces are anywhere from mocking to distasteful.

After an hour, Peter breaks away with a firm hand on Tony’s shoulder and disappears over to the bar. The man serving drinks asks for identification, and even after he provides it, the old bastard on the stool next to him asks, “Are you old enough to be drinking that, sonny?”

Peter takes the drink outside to wander the lawns of the estate. There’s a fountain, a great hulking thing big enough to swim in, made of marble and lit up with fairy lights, bubbling away.

After two sips (and the second is the most begrudging sip he’s ever taken), Peter dumps it into some well-manicured bushes and leaves the glass on the low fountain edge. Alcohol sucks. Galas suck. Feeling like he’s fifteen instead of twenty-one? Guess what _, it sucks._

Suddenly there is the swish of footsteps on the grass behind him. Peter hunches over instinctively, unprepared to face any guest from the party, but then he catches the faintest scent of Jean Patou cologne and relaxes. He gives Tony a smile that is mostly sincere.

“Resorted to heavy drinking already?” Tony asks, hands in his pockets, nodding his head toward the empty glass on the balcony railing. “Just a head’s up: it doesn’t make the conversation in there any more tolerable, and you’re way more likely to throw up on a lady’s dress and be saddled with the dry-cleaning bill.”

“That was here when I got here,” Peter lies. “What are you doing out here? They’re going to miss you.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” Tony says. He pulls Peter against him, the young man’s back flush against the front of his expensive tuxedo. They are nearly the same height, but Tony’s chin fits perfectly on Peter’s shoulder while they stare into the fountain. “You’re unhappy. What will make you happy? Do you want to leave? I can have Happy come with a car.”

“You’re too sweet to me,” Peter murmurs.

Tony kisses his temple. “I’d just do anything to make you happy, Peter Pan.”

Peter smiles. “Anything?”

Tony hums.

When Peter takes the man’s wrists and pulls him into the fountain, Tony has to scramble to keep his balance. The water is frigid, and the sound Tony makes is higher than Peter thought the man was possible of making. They stand knee-deep in the cold water, socks squishing in their leather suits.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Tony gasps, laughing. “Pepper is going to kill you if the press catches wind of this. Stark and Sugar Baby go for a midnight swim. I can read the headlines now.” He shrugs off his jacket and leans over to toss it out onto the grass. Loosening his tie, he gives Peter a roguish grin. “How much do you want to bet that we can convince at least one socialite to join us when they come to investigate the noise?”

Peter scoffs, undoing his cufflinks. “How are your investments doing so well when you have such poor intuition? You’re on, old man.”


	12. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Biker"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Nff. Daddy kink. 
> 
> Prompt: silver fox mechanic tony, biker bucky and pretty boy peter for the drabbles pls?

“Boss?”

Tony glances up from where he is elbow deep in paperwork. Harley is there at the door, perpetually sleepy looking, but one of the sharpest mechanics that he has on his payroll. “What is it, kiddo?”

“Owners of the Suzuki is here for pick-up. Figured you wanted to meet them.”

Harley figured correctly. The Suzuki has been Tony’s personal project since the owner brought it in during his off day two weeks ago. The body work had been a challenge, and Tony wasn’t often challenged by his job anymore. He found himself coming in early and staying late in the evenings spending time working on the bike, music blaring in the tiny lockable workspaces they kept cosmetic jobs locked up in.

He kind of wanted to shake the owner’s hand. He kind of wanted to see the look on the owner’s face when they realized how much effort Tony had put into the thing. Truly a labor of love. So he walks to the far back of the shop, past all the cars having mechanical issues, to where the little storage-unit like rooms are. The metal retractable door is lifted only a foot or two off of the ground, and he can see a pair of masculine, dark boots standing just inside.

When he gets closer, he hears the voices.

“—beautiful, daddy. God, look at it.” The voice speaking is breathless, high despite the masculine undertone. Tony slows, far enough away to keep his feet from being visible but close enough to listen. He’s got a large ego, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need stroking.

“I see it princess. We’re going to have to tip big, aren’t we?” The second voice must be the boots. It’s dark, deep. Tony gets goosebumps—but he always keeps the shop cold. “You’re going to look so good spread out on it. That color compliments your pretty pale skin so nicely.”

“Do you think?” the softer voice asks, threaded with angelic guile. “Maybe we could close the door, daddy. You can sit on the bike and then I can sit on you.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot skyward. He feels a stirring in his pants and shifts from one foot to the other, already seeking to give his growing cock more space to swell. Those voices are like liquid sex, yin and yang with each other, and he wishes more than anything that he’d been present when the owner dropped it off so that he could put faces with these words.

“You want that, baby? You want to ride your daddy’s cock, even with all those men and women out there listening in? We’d have to be quick, we don’t want the owner walking in on us, do we?”

“Let him,” the softer voice growls. “The only thing better than the risk of getting caught is actually getting caught. Come on, daddy, let’s live a little—”

Tony presses the button outside the workspace, and the metal door screeches as it lifts back. He gets the first look at the couple inside who stare at him with wide eyes: a cute little curly haired twink and a taller, buffer man who looks right out of Sons of Anarchy. Neither of them even try to hide that they’re hard—and he can’t miss the way the twink looks him up and down, pink thin lips agape.

Tony steps into the workspace and presses the button to lower the door. He lets it close all the way.

“Did I hear something about a big tip, gentlemen? I’ve certainly got ideas—“


	13. Peter/Tony/Bucky Labwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Insecure!Bucky facing Tony and Peter's flirtation down in the lab. Family friendly.

The arm that Shuri built for him when he came out of cryo is a casualty of Bucky’s first mission with the team in the field. Whatever device the Hydra member sticks to its metallic forearm fries it from the inside out, sets his nerve on fire and freezes him, electricity lighting him up like a Christmas Tree until Stark comes, fingers of his suit scrabbling to pull the device off and then giving up, pressing Bucky’s jerking thumb to the panel just beneath his armpit that detaches the entire fucking arm.

The arm still crackles where it lies between them.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says through his mask, voice electronic but no less sincere. “It was going to fry your brain.

“Why didn’t it fry yours?” Bucky grumbles, twitching, the shoulder on fire. Not that he wants it to fry Tony’s brain. All that tension is far behind them, now.

“I’ve had some prior experience with electricity,” Tony admits.

Even when they get the arm home, there’s no saving it. With Princess Shuri busy working on the first Wakandan International Outreach Center with Nakia, there’s no one to build the new arm save for Tony, the man who destroyed Bucky’s first. But judging by the way his face lights up, whipping out his phone to begin the specs of it, Tony isn’t holding any grudges either.

With only one arm, Bucky ends up spending most days down in the lab watching the progress, itching to be functional and useful again. He’s overseeing things, he tells himself as he sits on a stool safely out of the way of Tony’s experiments, cheeks aching from trying to keep a straight face. He’s certainly not spending so much time with his ass going numb just for fun. No way.

But Tony is funny, and the young man (a kid, really, Bucky thinks, though he knows that the one they call Spider-Man is stronger than any kid, smarter than any kid judging by the college classes he talks about taking at NYU), the young man that Tony spends more days working beside than not is just as witty as the older man. Too much time together has them rubbing off on each other, Bucky thinks. Then his face turns red at the thought. Rubbing off on each other, indeed.

“How does that sound, Mr. Barnes?” Peter asks. A hole has been singed in his t-shirt large enough to show off a gratuitous amount of abdominals that are certainly not kid-like. “Wouldn’t that be sick? The arm isn’t affected by temperature above or below what’s comfortable, so why not give you the option to generate high or low temperatures from within the hand itself?”

“He’s hot enough on his own, kid,” Tony mutters around the screwdriver in his mouth. Bucky nearly chokes on his own saliva.

“I, whatever you think is best, kid. Would it be useful?” Bucky asks. He hardly thinks it’s appropriate to ask for them to put in so much extra work just for a feature that’s cool.

“I could think of a few uses for a gently-warmed hand—”

“Tony oh my god, that’s not—that’s not what I was thinking!”

Tony waggles his eyebrows and Bucky struggles to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. Peter is turning red as a tomato, wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans. This is how it always goes: Tony flirts, Peter blushes, Bucky soaks it in. It’s been too long since anyone looked at him as any more than a tool for murder, and even if these two attractive men can’t possibly mean any of the things they say—it’s nice to shut his eyes and imagine.

He’s doing plenty of imagining when he’s alone. Thank God he’s still got one working hand.

“Kid, I’m just ruffling your sensible feathers. It’s a good idea—but it sets back our completion date, and we’ve already pushed it back three times. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were stalling. Trying to keep tall, dark, and murderous coming back to our greedy clutches, aren’t you?”

Bucky lifts his brows. Peter positively sputters.

“I—I wouldn’t!” But the hunching of his shoulders, the way he can’t meet their eyes…that suggests something else. “Mr. Barnes needs his arm,” Peter says, sounding sad, sounding like he’s trying to remind himself of that fact.

“Hey,” Tony mutters, catching the kid’s wrist and pulling him in to stand between his spread thighs. He presses a kiss to the crown of the kid’s head and Bucky looks away, wondering again whether they aren’t as platonic as they’ve been telling everyone. “I’m just kidding, Pete.”

“It’s a good idea,” Bucky mutters, voice low and crackly from misuse. He clears his throat, feeling both their eyes on him. Struggling to keep his expression and tone level, he shrugs his good shoulder. “It’s a good idea. Right? So, push back the completion date. I’ll just have to come down and keep overseeing things.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks, eyes glittering.

Bucky shrugs again. Does it show on his face, the way his heart is pounding? God, he hopes not.

“Well then,” Tony says. “We’d better get to work, kid. Right? Don’t want to keep Mr. Barnes waiting any longer than we have to. And maybe we can think of a dozen more features to add so that he keeps coming back—ow! Hey! Kidding, kidding. Like, twenty percent kidding. Jesus, kid. Have mercy on an old man.”


	14. Peter/Tony/Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Peter and Bucky care for Tony after he spends too much time down in the lab. Family friendly.

“Hey handsome,” Bucky murmurs, his breath a warm plume against the back of Tony’s neck. His body doesn’t even shiver though, not with the complex circuitry in front of him. Reaching up, he taps at the goggles he wears until the lenses zoom in. “Can I get a ETA on when to expect you upstairs again?”

“Give me another hour,” Tony murmurs, barely moving his mouth, diverting his very breath away from the circuit board in front of him. There’s something wrong, something with the capacitors not holding charge efficiently. Sighing, he reaches out for the soldering iron and presses it against the solder joint, slipping into his work more seamless than another man might slip into sleep.

Bucky clears his throat. Tony glances up and sees that Peter is beside him, more than half a head shorter, though their twin expressions of disapproval make them look remarkably similar. I’ve messed up, Tony thinks. What’d I do?

“The hour will go by faster if you don’t interrupt me, lights of my life,” he mutters, eyes slipping back down to the circuit board.

“The hour went by, Tony. It went by an hour ago,” Peter says.

Tony blinks. He glances at the digital clock displayed by his work station, but he has no context for it, no idea when Bucky last came down into the lab, no idea even whether the time on the clock is AM or PM. All at once he feels the aching hollowness of his stomach, the greasy heaviness of his unwashed hair.

“How long have I been down here?” Tony wonders.

“Since Thursday, boss,” FRIDAY says. Unhelpful, considering Tony isn’t even sure of the day at this point.

“Too long,” Bucky translates. “Up you get. Don’t make me manhandle you.”

Manhandling sounds—well, Tony would hardly mind. He plays up that lasciviousness, leaning heavily on his stronger lovers to disguise how his knees ache from being bent for so long, how his head goes foggy from low blood pressure.

There’s a scent, one that makes his mouth water, throat ache. How he can smell it in the elevator when the penthouse is floors and floors away, he has no clue. When he relaxes his head, nuzzling against Peter’s neck, he smells it there: garlic and marinara.

“Have you been cooking?” Tony asks. “You could have ordered out, kid, charged the card I gave you. No need to expend the effort on my behalf—“

“None of that or I’ll gag you with a piece of garlic bread.”

Tony opens his mouth wide as the elevator doors open. He lets out a groan at the aroma of fresh tomato and basil. There’s wine on the counter, and three glasses—Bucky and Peter are both familiar with Tony’s personal rule that he never drink alone. Considering his lovers don’t care much to drink, this must be a special occasion.

“God, it’s our anniversary, isn’t it,” Tony slurs. “I’m so sorry. I meant to send flowers, four dozen roses or—“

“Our anniversary is in the summer,” Bucky reminds him. Glancing over at the windows, Tony sees the dark, cold evening sky, the swirl of snow. He blinks. Nudging him forward, Bucky leads him away from the dinner. “Bath first. You stink.”

“Can’t smell anything over that garlic bread— _bath_? Excuse me? What am I, a toddler?”

“I’m thinking about bending you over my knee like one if you don’t start stripping,” Bucky says. His eyes glitter though while he sits on the edge of the porcelain tub (big enough to fit three, Tony knows from pleasurable experience), watching Tony strip off his t-shirt singed with holes. The bath fills with water so hot it steams, and it isn’t until it’s half full that Bucky stands and begins to strip himself.

“Is it that kind of bath then?” Tony wonders. “Because we can skip the foreplay and get straight to the main event. I’m easy like that.”

“Peter,” Bucky calls, loud to be heard over the rushing water. “Bring that garlic bread gag!”

“Okay!” Peter chirps.

Bucky gets in first, leaning his back against the curve of the tub, legs spread wide. It’s clear that he wants Tony to take up space between those thighs. Swallowing hard, Tony enters as carefully as he can, a water-warmed metal hand helping keep him stable as he slips down under the water, groaning at the immediate relief it gives his aching muscles.

“God, that’s good.”

Bucky hums, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist, coaxing him to lean back against that broad, strong chest. All at once, Tony feels choked up, eyes stinging, throat working to swallow the knot that rests there.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” Tony says, struggling to keep his voice even. “A few days down in the lab is nothing. Before you two, I’d become very good at being alone. I can take care of myself.”

“You’re good at taking care of yourself,” Bucky mutters, his voice a warm rumble against Tony’s back. “Now we’ve got to get you good at being taken care of.”

“A tip?” Peter says, three empty glasses held in one hand and a plate of garlic bread in the other. The wine bottle is tucked under his arm. “Just lay back and take it. Here, garlic bread first.”

Tony shakes his hand half-dry and reaches out to take a piece of bread. It’s still warm, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, slick with olive oil. He can’t help but groan and lick his fingers clean. Peter seats himself on the floor beside the tub and pours three even glasses, offering one to each of them.

One of Bucky’s hands comes up and begins to work to dampen the hairs at the back of Tony’s head, breath ghosting over his neck and— _yes_. Now he gets goosebumps. _I could get used to this,_ he thinks.

And, well, practice makes perfect.

“Want to wash my hair?” Tony mumbles, half-asleep.

Peter takes the wine glass from his hand before it can slip free on its own, and Bucky presses a soft kiss in the hollow between Tony’s neck and shoulder. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	15. Peter/Tony Fairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fae peter? And tony accidentally stumbling into a fairy circle and meeting peter who’s very curious about tony because he’s human. Family friendly. 
> 
> Warnings: alcohol.

“I need to piss,” Tony states to a dozen drunken cheers. The party has devolved by now, though the fire still roars with upcoming college graduates pulling all manner of flammables from the woods around them and tossing it into the flames. Empty bottles crack in the heat, cast away by drunken hands, and Tony is no less drunk than any of them. 

He stumbles away from the crowd around the fire and disappears into the treeline, shivering once away from the blaze of the fire that has cooked him. It’s a testament to his intoxication that he must only plan to step far enough away from the party to urinate in peace, but suddenly he finds himself falling in love with everything he sees: trees with arms full of hopeful buds, reaching out to each other overhead, a stream that wets his boots when he walks through it, the stones round and smooth and perfect for skipping. When he comes across the clearing, lit only in moonlight, he realizes he can’t hear the sound of the party at all anymore. 

Curled up in the grass is a boy, maybe a man, though a young one certainly. He’s pale, silvery in the moon, curls dark and riotous, a crown fit for a prince. His hands are long-fingered and placed palm-to-palm, cushioning his head where he rests in the soft grass above the circle of foxglove plants. Tony creeps closer and stands, listening to the silence of spring just born, a season not yet prime for the chirp of crickets or call of cicadas. The boy’s mouth is soft and parted, his lashes long and dark.

From this distance, Tony can’t tell if the boy is breathing. He must be one of theirs, a friend of a friend that Tony doesn’t know, come out into the woods to piss just like Tony has only maybe too drunk to find his way back. Tony steps into the circle and kneels in the soft grass, putting a hand just in front of the boy’s face and sighing in relief when he feels warm puffs of breath. 

“Hey,” Tony murmurs, putting a hand on the kid’s bare shoulder. The skin is soft but cold, too cold. He shakes gently. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Bleary eyes open and grow wide. The boy sits up, Tony’s height but no taller, thin and willowy all over. “Oh,” the kid says. “What are you doing here?” 

“That’s my line,” Tony replies. 

“I’m right where I’m meant to be,” the kid replies. He sits up, and the grass beneath him isn’t rumpled at all in the shape where he lay. Tony blinks, trying to sober himself. A smile creeps across the boy’s face, and the moonlight plays tricks on Tony’s eyes and makes him think those teeth are just a hair too long and sharp. “Oh, you’re very handsome, do you know?” 

“I do know,” Tony says. “But thanks for saying it anyway. Should we go back to the party?” 

“The party is here,” the boy says dreamily. “Why not stay?” 

Tony hums. He sits cross-legged, feeling no urgency to return to his friends. “Maybe you’re right. You know, you’re very handsome too.” 

“Am I?” he asks, delighted.

“Yes. A little underdressed, I think. Aren’t you cold?”

“Oh, cold all over,” the boy says. “Inside and outside.” 

Frowning, Tony kneels up to peel the hoodie from his body. The boy watches with thoughtful, wary eyes. When Tony hands it to him, he takes it with the utmost caution, lifting it to his face and inhaling deeply. He glances up at Tony, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What is this?” he asks. 

“A jacket for you. It’s too cold to not have a shirt on.” 

The kid’s face softens into something tender, though the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones are loathe to display it. With movements graceful but slow and maybe a touch unsure, he shrugs his willowy arms into the sweatshirt. It dwarfs him, especially when he pulls up the hood over his curls, hiding his fingers in the sleeves and asks, “How do I look?” 

“Warm,” Tony says, smiling. 

Reaching out, soft fingers touch Tony’s cheek. “You should go back to the party,” the boy says, soft and sad and sweet. 

“Should I?” Tony asks, feeling a little like he’s in a dream. The boy reaches out and coaxes Tony to walk backwards on his knees where he still kneels, walks him back and back until he’s outside of the circle. For a moment, Tony aches to step back in, to curl up in that soft grass and sleep among the dirt, curled around this handsome, strange boy. But the moment passes. He really should get back to his friends. Standing, Tony says,” Alright. See you there. I want that hoodie back, by the way. Promise you won’t steal it?”

The kid’s lips part, a long breath slipping from beneath them. At last, he nods. “Alright. Promise. Go on then. Go straight back.” 

-

Peter watches the human disappear through the treeline, makes sure that the path in front of him doesn’t twist and turn and mislead, before he lays back down among the soft grass and breathes in the scent of the clothing he’s donned: earthy smoke, human sweat. Fingering the soft fabric, he frowns, knowing that this isn’t the last he’s seen of the human boy. 

A fairy promise is as good as guaranteed, and Tony will be needing back his jacket. 


	16. Peter/Tony Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: could you do tattoo artist! Tony x enjoys pain! Tattoo virgin! Peter? 
> 
> Warnings: NFF. Masochism.

“It’s not too late to back out,” Tony says, eyeing the anxious kid in his chair with a smirk. Peter replays those words in his head, half-wishing he could take that advice. 

He should back out. He’s been thinking it to himself ever since Tony came out from the back wearing cargo pants and a black sleeveless undershirt that showed off his strong, tattooed arms. He must have gaped if the sly look on the older man’s face was anything to go by. They’d been communicating all week via text about the tattoo Peter wanted, but this was the first time he’d seen the man’s face. His body. His ink. His everything. 

Peter doesn’t look like the kind of college kid to get a tattoo. He looks more like the acolytes at church getting his cheeks pinched by little old ladies and wearing socks with sandals. Obviously, Tony had thought the same thing, dragging his dark eyes across Peter from the curls on his head to the sneakers on his feet, one brow lifting in appraisal. 

But no. All the things Peter is, a coward isn’t one of them. So he’d set his jaw and looked Tony in the eye and that’s how he’d ended up in the chair, shirtless, with an impressive stencil on his bicep. He shakes his head at Tony’s question, though his voice comes out far too squeaky to be dignified when he says, “Nah, I’m good.” 

Tony snorts softly, nodding. “Mind if I have a toothpick? I’m quitting smoking and I miss have something to do with my mouth when my hands are busy.” 

Peter tries not to choke, imagining many things the attractive older man could do with his mouth. “That’s fine! Fine.” 

Tony smirks like he knows just what he’s doing to Peter, lifting a toothpick to rest between his full lips before opening gloves and snapping them into place. “Are you a baby with pain, kid?” Tony asks around the toothpick. “You can be honest. Tattoos are nothing to me, but I cried last night when I banged my shin on my end table.” 

“Actually, I’m not bad with pain,” Peter admits. 

He has no idea how true those words are, not until the gun is buzzing and Tony’s bent over him, pressing the needles to his skin. Peter shuts his eyes to keep them from rolling back into his skull. It feels hot, rasping in a way, like a cat’s sandpaper tongue combined with a bee sting. He can focus on nothing but the pain, nothing but the pressure of Tony’s fingers on his skin, the noise. All at once, a startling sensation south of the belt comes to his attention and he shifts, trying not to panic. 

“Keep still,” Tony says, glancing up at his face briefly. “Doing okay?” 

“Yeah,” Peter pants. “Fine, go on.” 

Tony looks doubtful but continues the linework. Every drag of the tattoo gun has Peter tensing, cock aching. He shifts one leg up, praying to God that Tony keeps his eyes on his arm and doesn’t look down towards his lap where a tent has formed. God, Peter thinks, head swimming, is this what the start of an addiction feels like? The pain is bright and unavoidable and never-ending. 

All at once, the gun stops. “Hey, kid, you okay?” Tony asks him. 

Peter opens his eyes, trying not to gasp. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Why?” 

“You’re making this noise. Whining.” 

Peter feels himself flushing. He shifts even though he knows it’s just drawing attention downwards towards the source of his problem, towards his cock that throbs and his balls that are full and desperate for him to palm himself and relieve the tension. “Sorry. I was daydreaming, I guess. I’m fine, really.” 

And then, God, the worst happens: Tony glances down. His eyes widen a fraction before narrowing, zeroing in on Peter’s erection like he’s a goddamn heat-seeking missile. Peter’s head thuds back against the chair as he squeezes his eyes shut, wincing. Jesus, how terrible is this? This is the worst thing that could ever happen in the history of ever. 

“ _Fuck_ me,” Tony mutters under his breath. 

“Sorry,” Peter says. “I can’t help it, I’m sorry! We can stop. I just—it feels good, and you’re, Jesus, you’re hot. Is that weird to say? My mouth feels numb. Am I rambling?” 

“It’s not weird,” Tony says, shifting the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He smiles, a flash of blinding white teeth, and it’s so fucking handsome that Peter’s head swims even more. “To be honest, I’m glad it’s not just me that’s hard right now. Let me know if you’re going to jizz, kid, I don’t want to fuck up your tattoo.” 

“Okay,” Peter says, relaxing back into the chair. “Wait, _what_?”


	17. Peter/Tony Planner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: please would you be able to do a drabble of wedding planner!peter and groom!tony. Family Friendly.

It’s glorious, Peter thinks to himself. Some of his best work, which is a feat given the ten years he’s been planning weddings for New York City’s elites. He was up before the sun overseeing the setup of the ceremony and reception venue (both in the Ritz-Carlton, a venue he’s well acquainted with by now). But has it ever looked like this?, he wonders, turning a circle to see it from every table. 

Instead of seating tables of six or eight, the Starks had decided to give a more private atmosphere. The tables placed to maximize the space between them and give an illusion of privacy could only seat two to three, the dusty-rose of the tablecloths just touching the floor. A half-hour before the ceremony ends, waiters and waitresses will flood the room to light the candles so that the whole place glows, warm and inviting. From the ceiling drips flowers (which he’s already coordinated to have delivered to local senior and hospice care homes once the ceremony ends), and Peter knows that when the chandelier is lit, it will light up the delicate blossoms and turn them into glowing beacons. 

It’s perfect. So why does it feel so wrong?

Peter walks through the room, adjusting a tablecloth that is off-center. It’s dark and dim, hours before preparation is even due to begin. That’s why he is so startled by the dark figure sitting slumped over one of the tables. Edging towards it, he prepares to tell one of the hotel’s patrons that the ballroom is off-limits, but then he recognizes the hair, the broad shoulders, the face dipped low in despair. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers, creeping closer. 

Tony looks up, eyes red. The smile he gives Peter is wavy, and the scent that pours off of him is sharp with alcohol. “Hey, kid,” he says. “Looks great in here.”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Peter asks, glancing at his phone to see the early time. “Your wedding is in six hours, Mr. Stark.” 

“The wedding isn’t happening at all, kid,” Tony says. He buries his face in his hands. “I can’t go through with it.” 

Oh. Yes. Peter’s seen this before, far too many times to count. Brides and grooms with cold feet. He’s offered support to them many times (seen a few truly break off the affair a few times as well), but he can’t help see the irony in comforting this man, in encouraging him to marry his beautiful fiance. Ironic, considering the feelings that Peter’s been harboring for him since their first phone call together, since Tony cracked far too many jokes that had Peter with tears in his eyes, since they spent so many hours together planning while Miss Potts worked as CEO of his company. 

“Tony,” Peter says, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Being anxious is normal. Getting married is a big deal. This fear just shows that you care, that you want it to go right. That’s a good thing.” 

“No, kid, you don’t get it.” Tony blinks around the dark room. “This place looks perfect.” 

“Thank you,” Peter says, pulling out a chair to sit beside him in the dark. “So what’s the problem?” 

“The problem is me. The problem is Pepper. The problem is that every time I think of standing up at that altar, it’s not her I imagine beside me. How can I marry her, Pete? How can I marry her when all I can think about is the way you make me feel?” 

All the breath gets trapped in his chest. His mouth gapes as he tries to make sense of what the older man just said. “But, _Tony_?”

“I can’t help it,” Tony says, sound on the verge of drunken tears. “The whole time we spent planning together, I wasn’t planning for a wedding with Pepper. I wasn’t wondering what flowers she might like, what color scheme, white or chocolate cake. I wanted to know what you liked. This whole place, it’s for _you_.” 

Peter blinks, and…yes. It makes sense. His favorite color on the tables, his favorite flowers. How often had Tony looked to him for a suggestion (when Pepper was absent, always absent, always leaving it up to them) and Peter had filled in the gaps? Tony hadn’t just planned a wedding with Peter in mind. Peter had planned his own dream ceremony. Only it wasn’t meant for him. 

“Tony,” Peter says sadly. He lets his hand creep across the table and take the older man’s weathered one, tracing his fingers over the scarred knuckles. “Is this—I have to know. Are you just drunk? Do you really feel this way, about—about me?”

Tony looks at him with dark eyes, brings their hands to his mouth and lets his lips press into Peter’s soft knuckles. “How do I prove it to you, kid?” 

_Slowly_ , Peter thinks. _Over a lifetime together, preferably._

Instead, he just stands on shaky legs. “We can start by waking Pepper. She needs to know that the wedding is off.” 

Tony takes a deep breath, holds it past the point of hurting, before letting it out through pursed lips. At last, he nods. “You’re right,” he mutters. “I know you’re right. Well then—together?” 

Peter helps him stand. “Together,” he says


	18. Peter/Tony/Bucky Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: winterironspider bucky hurt/comfort?
> 
> Warnings: Self harm (burns).

“I’m salivating,” Peter mutters, staring into the flames of the bonfire. He’s holding the stick well above the shimmering heat, turning it constantly like a makeshift rotisserie.“Do you see this Tony? It’s going to be the most perfect marshmallow ever. Just a little crispy on the outside, and gooey on the inside.”

“Don’t call Barnes a marshmallow,” Tony teases, roping the quiet man who sits beside Peter back into the conversation the way he has been all evening. They are the last three around the fire on Clint’s farm, and Tony is lying if he says he isn’t counting this as their first date between the three of them, tentative as they have been to take that first step together. Tony doesn’t count their days in the lab while he works to make Bucky a new arm—not when he knows how dependent on it Bucky is without it, his left sleeve empty and pinned up at his side.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Everyone is gooey on the inside,” he rasps. It’s a good thing it’s a little chilly out, so that Tony’s shiver can be disguised as from the cold.

“Please don’t take this away from—“ the marshmallow falls off the stick into the fire which crackles merrily in thanks. “—oh _dang_ it—!”

But then, Bucky reaches out with his flesh hand and dips it into the flames. Peter sucks in a horrified breath and Tony can do nothing but stare at the twisted expression on the ex-assassin’s face as he shifts aside a log and plucks the mostly liquid marshmallow from the flames. When he pulls his hand free, his sleeve is on fire, hand blistering, soft candy dripping between his burned fingers.

Barnes makes an unhappy noise and shakes his hand free of the goop. “Sorry, kid,” he says. “Couldn’t save it.”

“Jesus,” Peter whispers, hand hovering over Bucky’s burnt arm. The man flinches away from the almost-touch before stiffening, resigning himself to it. “Why did you do that? Look at you—God, Tony, we need a doctor.”

“I didn’t want you to lose your marshmallow,” Bucky mutters. A tall, broad man, he hunches himself over to appear smaller, watching them warily, aware he’s done something wrong but not sure what. “It’s okay. It will heal soon.”

“Shouldn’t have to heal at all, Daenerys Targaryen,” Tony says. On his phone he sends a message to Clint asking for the man to bring out any first aid supplies he might have. “Don’t you know you’re more important than a marshmallow?”

Bucky blinks. Like he _doesn’t_ know. “I heal though. What’s it matter, if it might have made the kid smile?”

“Matters a lot,” Peter says, wiping at his eyes with one gloved-palm.

“Small price to pay,” Bucky says. He looks down at his arm, the singed sleeve of his coat and flannel, the blistering flesh. “I’ve paid bigger. It’d be nice to hurt for a, for a _good_ cause. For once.”

“It’s not a trade,” Tony says, chest aching. “Not at all. If it hurts you, it isn’t worth it. Not to us. How often do you do things like this? Hurt yourself?”

Bucky stares into the fire, shrugging. “Always heals,” he mutters. “Who really cares if the Winter Soldier hurts? That’s—that’s karma right?”

“We care,” Peter says. Pressing his gloved hand to Bucky’s cheek, he says it again: “ _We care_.”

Footsteps crackle in the darkness: Clint with the first aid. He doesn’t bother asking what’s happened, eyeing the burns on Bucky’s arm only briefly before returning to the house. How many times has someone done that, he wonders. Looked away from Bucky’s suffering?

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, pulling his arm closer to himself. “It doesn’t need anything.”

“Let me,” Peter says, voice barely heard over the fire. “Please. If you want me to. Let me.”

After a long time, Barnes relaxes, holding out the injured arm. “Alright,” he says. Then, a little choked, “Thanks.”

But there’s no need for thanks. Tony comes around the fire to kneel in the dirt at their feet and assist Peter, pulling back the ruined sleeve, applying burn salve and then carefully covering the wounds, squeezing Bucky’s jean-clad knee when the man winces. After that, they all sit together on the same log, sharing each other’s warmth long after the fire is only coals.


	19. Peter/Tony Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: king!tony and pining servant!peter?
> 
> Warnings: war. Poison.

“I can’t believe he’s gone to such lengths,” Anthony breathes, standing at the castle window. His face is lit with the glow of fire, and Peter watches him shut his eyes against the gruesome scene of war just outside the castle walls. The tortured expression cuts Peter to the bone. “Obadiah was my father’s most trusted advisor. A betrayal like this is beyond politics.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Virginia says, face tender. Peter is grateful for her here, even if it stings. He longs to comfort his King this way, with kind touches and soothing words. But he’s no noble, not like the Lady, not like the King, not like the King’s own Knight who stands at the doors, face heavy with worry. The siege has lasted for nearly two weeks now, and the castle is almost empty of life save them. Other noble ladies are stowed away for their own protection, but nearly every able body is outside the castle or along the walls defending it from the Iron Monger’s army. 

According to Sir Quentin Beck, who visits them at dawn of each morning, King Anthony is winning, though the cost is grave and the sight is anything but victorious. 

“Tony, you must eat something,” Virginia says when another servant brings a tray, making eyes with Peter across the room. She’s new, unfamiliar, but their station gives them a sense of comradery even if they are unknown to each other. Instead of staying, she slips out the door as quietly as she had come.

“I need to be out there helping defend my people,” King Anthony mutters. 

“If you fall, this kingdom falls,” Sir Rhodes says from where he stands guard. “You have no heirs, no brothers to take the throne in the event of your death.” 

“My people are my heirs, and they’re dying out there,” King Anthony says through his teeth. 

“You do them no good by starving yourself. Please, Tony, you’ve barely eaten for three days and nights,” Virginia says. “If I bring it to you by the window, will you eat? For me? For your people?” 

The King sighs heavily, and Peter feels the ache in his bones for this man. He’d been a young boy when King Howard had reigned, and Peter remembered the way the man ruled with an iron fist. Things were just, but not nearly as warm as they were under Howard’s son. Now, Peter and the other servants knew kindness, they knew what it was like to be treated like human beings and not commodities. It hadn’t been hard to fall in love with the handsome, new King. Not hard at all. 

The Lady goes to bring his food, not even giving Peter the chance to bring it, but then she hesitates, her hands above the tray. She turns her pale eyes to Peter. “Peter,” she says, gentle. “What was the name of the girl who brought this tray?”

Peter frowns. “I don’t know, my lady. She wasn’t familiar to me. But—” a thought dawns in Peter’s mind.

“But?” 

“But, to my knowledge, there are no new servants in the kitchens, my lady.” 

“Poison? A ploy from Obadiah?” Sir Rhodes asks. Tony glances over from the window, frowning at the innocuous food on the tray: bread and jam, fish from the sea to the north, wine dark as blood, vegetables from the garden. “Should we test it, then?” 

Virginia glances at Rhodes. “Which of us?” 

“I’ll do it, as is my duty to my King,” Rhodes says. 

“Hardly,” Virginia says. “You are the last defense should they make it through the walls and find us here. I’ll do it.” 

“You? Pepper!” Anthony cries. “God, my mother would roll in her grave to hear me treat you that way.”

Then, all eyes drift to Peter. 

“No,” the King says. 

“Who else, then?” Rhodes asks. 

“No one,” Anthony snaps. “Peter’s life is no less important than any of ours.” 

The thrill he hears at hearing his name on those well-shaped lips is dulled because his King isn’t speaking the truth. Everyone in the room knows that Peter’s life is the most expendable. Even Peter himself, feeling his shoulders bow under the weight of what he knows he must do. He takes a step towards the table where the food rests, but then the King is there in his way, a broad, well-clothed chest that makes Peter suck in his breath. 

“I said no, Peter,” Anthony says firmly. “That’s an order from your King.” 

Peter swallows. “With all due respect, your highness, I don’t believe I can follow any order that hurts you.” He lifts his eyes and sees the torture, the anguish in the brown eyes of his King and he can’t bear to look. He turns away. To the tray. His steps don’t hesitate, his fingers don’t tremble as he reaches out for the bread to tear a bite free, already feeling his throat close up, as if the poison is there and already taking effect—

“No.” King Anthony presses him aside and in one long step, reaches the table and swipes his arm across it, dashing the tray to the floor. Wine spills from the glass, flooding the floor, and dishes clatter, loud in the open, empty room. Peter stares, eyes wide, as the King comes to take his chin firmly in a rough hand. He tips up Peter’s chin so there is no room to hide, nowhere to look except for those wild, tired, brave eyes. “Not you, Peter. Not you.” 

He stalks back to the window and stands there, lit up again by the fires, and Peter can’t help but reach up and brush his fingers where the King’s grip once rested, feeling the warmth and the strength, there and deeper.


	20. Peter/Tony "Puppy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Puppy play. 
> 
> Warnings: puppy play, kink discussion.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t have brought anything?” Peter asks, eyes bouncing around the room, unsure where to rest. There’s no shortage of things to look at with the Avengers around: Clint whooping Lang’s ass at paper football, Natasha behind the bar mixing drinks for her ex-Soviet-in-arms Bucky and Steve. They metabolize alcohol at a rate that doesn’t even allow them to feel intoxicated, which Tony thinks is a waste of alcohol but it isn’t as if he’s hurting for money. Not to mention that modesty isn’t his lifestyle. 

“I feel bad,” Peter says again, leaning against Tony. “Coming to a party and not bringing something.”

“This isn’t your grandmother’s potluck, kid,” Tony teases. “Besides, you brought the most important thing! A truly rare commodity, the only thing I didn’t have on hand in the Tower, even though I craved it—” 

“Me,” Peter murmurs, trying not to smile. “You’re going to say it’s me, aren’t you?” 

“Am I getting predictable? Fuck. Maybe this is what old age really feels like.” They wrap their arms around each other, and Tony presses a kiss to the crown of curls on top of Peter’s head. When he tucks his head into the hollow of the kid’s neck, he breaks the news: “We’re playing tonight. I call the shots, but we both know the rules. Your safe word?” 

“Web,” Peter breathes. 

“Good boy,” Tony says lowly. 

When they part, the kid’s cheeks are already more flushed. Rhodey and Pepper enter on the other side of the room, and Tony both wants to greet them and leave Peter aroused and off-balance, so he claps him on the shoulder and says he’ll catch up with him later before moving away. Glancing back, he lets his eyes fall below Peter’s belt and—yes, that’s just the reaction he was hoping for. Peter flushes to the roots of his hair when Tony lifts a brow at him.

After Peter graduated, accepted Tony’s offer to move into the penthouse, and the two of them had tentatively begun a relationship, they’d discovered all the ways their desires crossed. However, while Peter had some experience, there were many things that he only thought he might like—they’d been working their way down the list, letting him experience his kinks outside of porn and his fantasies. Some things (bondage, humiliation) had been major likes. Other things (impact play, Peter-topping) hadn’t been as enjoyed by the younger man. 

This though—why did he feel like this was so much bigger? Like Peter had been building up to this? Maybe he’d been feeding Tony kinks that weren’t as important or arousing to him to try to throw him off the scent. Maybe he’d needed to know that Tony wouldn’t judge him for wanting to experiment with this new level of play.

He’d start small. 

“Hey Peter,” Tony calls from behind the bar, interrupting him from the first-person shooter game that he’s teaching Thor on the console. “Fetch me the dual jigger that’s on the middle bookshelf over there? The one that Prime Minister of Cape Verde gave me in the nineties.” 

“One sec,” Peter says. “I’m taking Thor to school—” 

Tony clears his throat. Peter glances over at the sound, eyes widening. Pointing to the bookshelf in question, Tony lifts both brows. “Pete. _Fetch_.” 

The reaction is hardly subtle. The kid turns red from the roots of his hair down his neck, past the collar of his button-down shirt. He drops the controller (Thor bellows triumphantly) and walks with an awkward gait to the shelf where the golden jigger sits. His hand trembles when he reaches for it, his eyes on the floor to avoid the gaze of their teammates as he crosses the room to give it to Tony.

“Come on, man,” Bucky says. “He was in the middle of his game.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, smiling. His pupils are huge. “I could probably run down to the ground floor and back and Thor wouldn’t have gained enough kills to beat me.” 

Collective _oooh’s_ rise around the room, and conversation resumes without more discussion about it, Tony telling his story about the golden jigger and his time spent in Cape Verde while Peter retreats back to the sofa. 

Later when they’re settling down around the television to begin a movie marathon (the first LotR, because of course), people are scrunching together and making room to accommodate as many on the sofas as possible. Steve and Bucky bicker over the Blu-ray player and the others watch (“This is better than the movie,” Clint stage whispers to Natasha), and Tony takes up residence in the armchair beside the side of the sofa where Peter resides. 

He clears his throat again. Peter glances over, smiling. 

Tony points to the space at his feet. 

Peter’s eyes squint in confusion. Quietly, Tony snaps his fingers. The kid shudders all over, soft eyes growing wide as understanding dawns on him. His throat bobs, glancing over at the other occupants of the couch to see if anyone has noticed the exchange before slipping from his perch on the sofa and down until he kneels beside Tony’s armchair, leaning half against it and half against Tony’s legs. 

“Good boy,” Tony murmurs, petting his fingers through Peter’s hair. They’re close enough that he hears the younger man’s breath catch at the words, and Peter carefully turns to nuzzle into Tony’s palm, a soft vibration against his hand the only indication that the kid is whining and—Jesus. Now Tony needs to take a moment to collect himself. 

“You don’t want to sit, kid?” Steve asks, pointing to the empty spot on the couch. 

“No, you can have it, Captain Rogers,” Peter says, smiling. 

“Yeah, you’re old and your knees probably couldn’t handle kneeling on the floor,” Tony says flippantly.

“Look who’s talking,” Bucky says to everyone’s laughter. 

Watching movies with more than a half dozen other Avengers is positively chaotic. No one watches the movie: there are dramatic renditions, fan theories abound, furious arguments, and plenty of laughter. It’s easy enough for Tony to slip his first two fingers down the collar of Peter’s dress shirt. Buttoned up as it is, Tony can only imagine the soft pressure it puts on the boy’s throat. 

“Would a collar be this tight?” he whispers to Peter. “Just tight enough that you can’t ignore it, that you always know it’s there and who you belong to, who you’re working to be good for?” 

Peter breathes out hard through his nose, hands clutched tightly in his lap (concealing a hard-on most likely) and when he leans forward, putting more pressure on his own throat and shivering all over, Tony figures he knows exactly which column this kink is going to fall in. 

And he can’t wait to see where it leads. 


	21. Peter/Tony "Prom"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: HS Starker, popular/rich Peter wants to ask shy/nerd/poor Tony to prom, but Tony thinks it's obviously a prank. Family Friendly.

“Come on, Parker,” Peter mutters under his breath. Inside his locker is a mirror that he uses to try to tame his hair into place, giving frequent glances towards the chemistry classroom’s closed door. He wipes his sweating palms on his jeans and takes a deep, fluttering breath, trying to tame his nerves. Playing point guard on the varsity basketball team requires him to perform in front of a thousand or more people a night, but he’s never felt anxiety like he does now. 

Basketball is easy. Tony Stark is…complicated. 

The jury is still out on whether the fellow senior is shy or antisocial, if he’s an aloof genius or a nerdy outcast. After Beck had laughed in Peter’s face at his admission that he wanted to ask Tony to prom, Peter hadn’t bothered mentioning it to the rest of his friends on the team. Tony is polarizing. People either love him or try to push him into lockers. But ever since they’d shared a math class last year, Peter has been in quiet awe of the older boy. His intellect is unmatched in their school, and beneath the jeans with the knees worn away (the ones he wore several times a week, though Peter certainly never wanted to bring that to anyone’s attention) and the flannels two sizes too big for his frame, Tony is handsome. Swoon-worthy, Peter would go so far as to say. 

The door to the chemistry classroom opens and a few students file out. Peter is glad to see that Tony isn’t among them; he hopes to catch the older boy alone after the after-school chemistry program. Shutting his locker, Peter steels himself and heads into the classroom before he can stop himself. Inside at one of the lab tables are Tony and a dark-skinned boy in a wheelchair. They glance up at Peter and the happy expressions slip right off their faces. 

Not the friendliest greeting, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Peter swallows. “Hey, Tony, can I talk to you?” 

The other boy (Rhodes, James Rhodes, Peter knows him as) gives Peter an unimpressed look before glancing back at Tony. “You want me to wait for you?” he asks. Tony just shakes his head. 

Then they’re alone, Tony placing beakers and other glassware into the drawer of the lab station, glancing up at Peter with narrowed, suspicious eyes. 

“Hey. I said that already. Um, look, I was — do you, well, do you have a date to prom?” 

Tony stares blankly. “Prom,” he repeats, voice low and deep and shiver-worthy. 

“Yeah. I was just wondering, if you didn’t already have someone you were going with, of course! Well, if you maybe would want to go. With. You know. _Me_.” 

Tony snorts. “Yeah. _Sure_ , Parker.” 

They’re the words he’s wanted to hear ever since he saw the senior class officers posting up fliers for the spring prom, the words he’s fantasized about, dreamed about even. He’s so ecstatic to hear them come to life that he hardly even notices the tone. They light him up from the inside out, until he’s sure the sun can be glimpsed between his smiling teeth. “Really?” Peter asks, heart pounding. “That’s — _yes_! Awesome. I can pick you up, of course, and maybe we could go and get our tuxes together? To coordinate? What colors do you like? I know you wear a lot of red.” 

Tony squints. “Parker, I was being sarcastic.” 

And all at once, that light in him goes out. It’s crushed beneath one of Tony’s worn boots, shattered. The high and abrupt low leave his head spinning as he tries to understand, hadn’t Tony just said yes? But of course not. It’s obvious now, the thinly veiled loathing, the irony in his voice. Horrified, Peter realizes that tears are burning at his eyes. He looks away towards the windows of the chem lab, shoving one hand deep into his pocket so he can hide it’s trembling.

“Oh,” he says, because he has to say something, because Tony is just standing there staring at him. “Right. Sorry. I—yeah. Sorry.”

“Parker, are you crying?” 

“What?” Peter asks, wiping at one of his raw eyes with his knuckles. “Dude, it’s the fumes in here. They’re awful.” 

“There are no fumes, it’s ventilated. I—were you serious just now?” 

Peter laughs wetly. “Yeah. Sort of.” 

Tony comes around the lab table. He looks panicked, unsure how to respond to Peter’s tears (though he wipes each one away before it can fall). Lifting a hand to Peter’s shoulder, he lets it fall before he can make contact. “Come on, Parker,” he says, soft and a little teasing. “You don’t want to go to prom with me. You’re the most popular kid in school. I know what you and your friends say about me. I’m a loser.” 

“They’re jerks,” Peter mutters. 

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. 

“But you’re wrong,” Peter goes on. His aunt and uncle didn’t raise him to be a coward, and if he’s made it this far, then he has nothing further to lose. What more can Tony say than what he’s already said (no)? He sniffs wetly. “I do want to take you to prom. I think you’re so smart, and you’re kind, and you’re like, really handsome. I get it though. Why you’d say no. I mean, popularity isn’t everything right?” 

“Right,” Tony says, frowning. Thoughtful.

“I’ll just—I’ll see you. Around. You know.” 

“Yes.” 

“Cool.” 

“No—Parker. _Yes_. I’ll go to prom with you. Black suits. Red ties. You can pick me up at six—here, give me your hand or something so I can give you my number.” 

And when he’s in the solitude of his car, Peter presses tender, reverent fingers to the phone number written on his forearm in black ink and smiles like an idiot, grateful that there’s no one around to see him. Because _Tony said yes._


	22. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Assistance"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mayhaps some IronSpider with possible WinterIronSpider? Peter being obsessed with Bucky’s metal arm (because obviously), being the only one Bucky allows to touch it. Tony walks him through some of the trickier maintenance when Peter needs him, but mostly Peter just likes hearing Tony tell him what to do to Bucky, likes to imagine it all in an entirely other setting. Perhaps, some day, it will come true...
> 
> Warnings: none.

It’s the innocence, maybe. Bucky’s arm has drawn many reactions: stares, pity, aversion, revulsion. In Tony, it incites enthusiasm—he’s been begging Bucky to come down to the lab and let him take a look at it, but Bucky’s had enough of labs, enough of being under someone’s scrutiny like a bug underneath a glass. No matter how much he likes Tony (and it’s too much, too much for the laundry list of reasons why he shouldn’t be pining after the genius), he won’t put himself through that. 

Then comes Peter Parker, barely eighteen, with wide eyes and too many manners. When he sees Bucky’s arm for the first time, he lights up like a Christmas tree, palm hovering over the metal, asking, _Can I please touch it, Mr. Barnes?_ Like that question in that innocent cracking voice doesn’t echo in Bucky’s brain and sends his thoughts right into the gutter. Whether it’s politeness or just a general softness for this boy-cum-superhero-cum-man, Bucky softens his expression and bears it. 

Bears the soft, trembling touches. Bears the warmth of flesh against the cool metal. Bears Tony’s expression across the room, intense and knowing, so fucking knowing that Bucky looks down at his flesh hand clutched into a tight fist. 

“It’s incredible,” Peter murmurs, turning Bucky’s metal hand palm up so he can trace over it like a fortune teller. _Tell me, kid, is there a Murder Line? Can you see how many men I’ve choked the life from with that very palm?_

“It’s powerful.” 

“I know, but not too strong for me,” Peter laughs. He reaches up and mines how he caught Bucky’s fist in his own palm during their fight at the airport, and Bucky relaxes even more. He couldn’t choke the life out of this kid. Not even if he wanted to. 

When he can’t put off the maintenance anymore, when the gears grind and it aches up his shoulder, up his neck, right up into his brain, he goes down to Tony in the lab like a dog with its tail between its legs, ready to fight down the panic and fear, anything so he doesn’t have to feel the pain anymore. But Tony takes one look at his empty expression and suggests something else. 

“Careful,” Tony murmurs. “Soft touches, kid, steady hands—” 

“Trying,” Peter breathes, breath fanning against the open panels of Bucky’s arm. Bucky grits his teeth and tries not to shiver, prays to god that he doesn’t get hard from the soft little touches the kid gives him. Closing his eyes doesn’t help, because so much of what Tony says can be taken out of context. It’s too easy to slip into a mindset where, _firm now, kid, don’t let up pressure, there you go, good boy_ , keep going can mean something much, much more different. 

“Tony, stop,” Peter mutters. 

Tony laughs quietly. “What? I’m not doing anything.” 

“You’re doing it on purpose and you’re going to distract me,” the kid says under his breath. Bucky’s eyes are closed where he’s leaning back against the chair, and he thinks the two of them might have figured he’s fallen asleep. 

“What, kid? Don’t like it when I give you orders like that?” 

“Tony,” Peter says sharply. “You know I, I like it _too_ much.” 

Jesus, Bucky thinks. So it’s not just in his head. Stark’s making these innuendos, and it’s affecting Peter. 

“I’ll stop,” Tony says smugly. “Reconnect those wires and we’ll wake Sleeping Beauty to make sure the grinding has stopped and the calibration is correct. And hey—not to fluster you, but you’re doing great Pete, and I think it means a lot that Barnes trusts you enough to have you do this for him.” 

There is a soft, wet sound. Kissing, Bucky thinks. Jesus, they’re kissing right over me. As desperate as he is to see, Bucky fights to keep his face lax and his eyes closed, convinced that if he even cracks them open to catch a glimpse of these two men he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about, then he might not be able to help himself. 

“Thanks,” Peter breathes. “I’m glad he does too. I really like him.” 

Tony chuckles warmly. “Noted, kid. And ditto. Go ahead and wake him, how did the Prince do it? With a kiss?” 

“Tony,” Peter sighs, and then Bucky feels a warm hand on his shoulder, urging him awake, and he lets his eyes flutter open.


	23. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Delivery"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Winterironspider, Peter and Tony get feisty while waiting on delivery and when they answer the door to hot af delivery driver Bucky, well...
> 
> Warnings: nff. Voyeurism (unintentional and not discussed prior, though all parties enjoy it thoroughly)

“Jesus, Pete,” Tony mutters, lips brushing against the younger man’s bruised neck. He stops, punctuating his sentence with a wet, sucking kiss, feeling the soft neck beneath his lips strain and whine. “What are you doing to me, kid? I feel like I’m in fucking high school again.” 

“You were like, twelve in high school,” Peter breathes. He arches prettily to give Tony more room to paint bruises over bruises. 

Tony opens his mouth and drags his teeth over the tender skin. Peter groans, hips jerking where he’s kneeling over Tony’s lap. “It’s a figure of speech.” 

But an accurate one. Tony can’t remember the last time he made out with someone like this, not even when he was a teenager and first began having sex—probably the side-effect of having mostly casual sex with much older partners. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he feels virginal, but this, this with Peter? It’s refreshing. It’s different. It’s slow and savored. 

They’ve been pressed chest-to-chest on the leather sofa in Tony’s main room for upwards of an hour, aimlessly kissing every exposed inch of skin. There is a laziness to it though, a contentment that Tony rarely feels (inside or outside of the bedroom). Neither of them work to undress the other or explore anymore than the skin just beneath the hems of their t-shirts. The arousal in Tony’s belly has simmered lowly, stoked by Peter’s hips as he drags their hard cocks together. 

Peter whines softly. Tony soothes him with a kiss, their lips raw and sensitive. “What is it, baby?”

His lover breathes a little laugh. “I’m—I’m close.” 

“Gonna cum in your pants for me?” Tony teases. Peter groans, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder and biting hard enough for it to sting. To make up for it, Tony tightens his hands around Peter’s hips and draws them together with more force. “No, no, don’t be like that. Do it, kid, I want to see you—” 

“Boss?” FRIDAY interrupts. “The food you ordered for delivery is in the lobby. Shall I send the man up to the penthouse?” 

Peter groans again, but it is a much less happy sound. 

“Give me five minutes, FRI,” Tony says, palming Peter’s ass. 

“The elevator reaches the penthouse in forty-five seconds—” 

“Close down the elevator, it’s out of order now. I said so.” 

“Tony, don’t make the poor guy walk up ninety floors,” Peter groans, though the urgency with which his hips rut against Tony’s own doesn’t cease. “That’s ridiculous. Our food will be cold.”

“I’ll tip him five hundred dollars.” 

“ _Ninety_ floors—!”

“What, a thousand? One thousand dollars? Jesus, whatever I have to do to make it worth his while, I don’t care. I’ve got to see you cum, kid.” He drags their mouths back together, swallowing the desperate sounds Peter makes. So much time spent stoking the fires inside them and now it feels like someone has turned up the burner. Flames lick at Tony’s gut and make his head swim, shimmery, blistering heat. Nothing exists except this, nothing except Peter’s strong thighs tensing around him, his socked-toes curling alongside Tony’s calves as he nears his orgasm, the noises in his throat. 

“Boss, can I restart the elevators? It’s a fire hazard to keep them inactive, and—” 

“Yes, yes,” Tony gasps to her. “And _mute_! Come on, kid, give it to me. Fuck, you’re so sexy. Are you gonna say my name, Pete? Gonna cry out for me—?”

A noise. Tony’s head turns, hands tightening on Peter’s hips and his heart drops at the sight that greets him. _The delivery guy_ , dressed in a polo and khakis and a hat drawn low over his strong brow. None of that does anything to disguise the broad, strong figure, nor the handsome face, pale eyes widened as he takes in the sight of the two of them on the couch, sweating (likely from the trek he made up _ninety fucking floors_ , Jesus Christ, how long has it been since FRI stopped those elevators?). 

Tony goes to open his mouth, to alert Peter to this attractive stranger’s presence or to tell the guy to get the hell out, but then it’s too late. Peter keens, one hand clutching desperately at the leather sofa, back arching beautifully as he cries out, hips jerking helplessly. Across the room, Delivery Guy (shocked as he is, Tony notices that he hasn’t looked away, can’t look away from the sight of the two on the sofa) _licks his lips_.

No one can say Tony isn’t a bit of a voyeur. Where his hands have tightened on Peter’s hips to push the kid away, suddenly he draws him closer, thrusting up into the warm cradle of his thighs. 

“There you go, Pete, good boy,” Tony says, eyes locked with the man across the room whose jaw clenches.

“Tony,” Peter moans, dragging out the name. He sags against Tony’s chest, for a moment obscuring Tony’s vision of Delivery Guy, and when he looks again, the man is gone. 

The plastic sacks of food sit beside the door in the foyer. While Peter cleans himself up in the bathroom (“I can’t believe you let him _watch_ ,” Peter had lamented, already growing shifty, the bulge in his jeans growing far too large for his innocent, outraged act to fool his older, more seasoned lover), Tony rifles through the bag to find the receipt. 

Delivery Guy is _James B._

“Hey kid,” Tony calls out. “What do you think about getting take-out again tomorrow?”

Peter comes out of the master bedroom wearing a pair of Tony’s sweatpants, low on his hips. He flushes—Tony’s meaning is unmistakable. The kid clears his throat, struggling to remain nonchalant. “Maybe I’m a little preemptive but, uh—take-out sounds good.” 

Tony grins.


	24. Peter/Tony "Monitor"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Starker Drabble pls ??? the first time their son/daughter sleep through the night Peter or Tony cant help but go check anyway to see if they are alright
> 
> Warnings: none.

“ _Tony_.” 

Tony hums, more than half-asleep even though it’s movie night, even though they had promised to spend time together as a couple after Morgan went to sleep. Reaching out with one hand, Tony searches for Peter’s own, ears picking up the scene on the television: blasters and lightsabers. Fuck, he’s missed half the movie.

“ _Morgan isn’t breathing_.” 

His eyes open, unseeing. The terror is visceral, like a knife to his chest. He sits up so quickly that his head spins, taking in Peter’s face lit up by the light of the baby monitor they’d installed in Morgan’s nursery. Even in the blue-tinged light, Peter looks pale and terrified, eyes wide as moons as he stares down at their daughter. 

“FRIDAY!” 

“Morgan is breathing boss. Respiration rate is 42 breaths a minute which is within normal range. Heart rate is 130 beats a minute, also—”

“But look at her, Tony!” Peter thrusts the monitor under Tony’s face, the glow burning his eyes. “ _Look_ at her! She’s not moving.” 

Tony’s heart still hasn’t slowed—God, he thinks, is there anything more terrifying than hearing that your child isn’t breathing? If there’d been any doubt that the parental instinct wouldn’t develop in him, it was long gone, chased away by his thundering pulse. He looks down at the sleeping bundle, so tiny in a crib she has yet to grow into. He squints. It’s hard to tell over the poor quality of the monitor (fuck this, he’s going to have to design one of his own, forget trying to appease whoever had bought this for them as a gift at the baby shower). Is her chest rising and falling with the rapid breaths of a newborn? 

It’s impossible to tell. But— “You know FRIDAY watches her, Pete,” Tony says. “Who are you going to trust, a screen with the quality of a 2006 flip-phone, or the most advanced digital assistant in the Western Hemisphere?” 

“I trust my _eyes_ ,” Peter says. They’re bloodshot eyes. Exhausted ones, one full of tears. Getting Morgan’s sleep cycles on a normal circadian rhythm had taken a toll on both of them, but especially on Peter who was sensitive enough to hear Morgan rolling and whining even through the walls. 

“Alright,” Tony soothes. “Then let’s go in there and check. That’s the only way to be sure, isn’t it?” 

The look Peter gives him is scathing. “I don’t want to _wake_ her, Tony! She’s only been asleep for three hours—” 

Tony doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He buries his face in his hands lest he laugh and hurt his husband’s feelings, but Peter must see the way his shoulders shake because the younger man delivers a modest push to Tony’s shoulder. 

“I’m serious!” Peter laments.

“What do you want me to _do_ , Pete? I’m—” 

A cry from the next room startles them both. Peter’s whole body goes lax with relief, and Tony feels his heart clench. What an asshole he is, when Peter’s fear (even as illogical as it is) is so painfully real. But the younger man stands, knuckles rubbing away the tears that had filled his eyes. “You sit,” Peter says tenderly. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got her.” 

Tony sags back into the sofa cushion. “Call if you need backup.” 

But instead of sleeping, he sits, face lit by the monitor, watching his husband rock back and forth in the sweetest slow-dance with their daughter cradled in his arms. And he decides that some moments are more important than sleep. 


	25. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Problem"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: i would love to have peter being passed between tony and bucky and steve and thor if you're interested in writing that for a drabble 🥰 he's so little and sweet but maybe because of his enhanced body, it takes a lot more to curb his libido?
> 
> Warnings: discussions of sharing. Nff.

The middle of the night means nightmares to Bucky. It means heart palpitations, waking in a cold sweat tangled in the sheets, fighting unseen enemies (in his head, they’re in his head). It has never meant…whatever this is. 

He wakes in the darkness to a figure standing a distance away. Stark in his pajamas, his eyes tell him, no threat here. He’d fallen asleep in the armchair beside the window, a book in his lap, page lost. So much for trying to stay awake, he thinks, rubbing at his eyes which no longer burn with exhaustion. “What is it?” he asks Stark. “Are we Assembling?” 

“You and I are, I hope,” Tony mutters. “It’s Peter. He—he needs you.” 

Peter. The youngest Avenger. They’d all been at his eighteenth birthday party last summer, when Tony and Peter had made their relationship official. There had been plenty of smiles and frowns and _I knew it_ ’s (and maybe in Bucky’s heart there’d been a pang of longing, an achy spike of jealousy, but he’d pressed it down deep and given his congratulations to the both of them, like a grown man should). It didn’t take Natasha’s skills in observation to see that Bucky had a soft spot for the kid, even if he hadn’t seen much of him around the Tower lately. Too busy with Stark, he figured. 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, standing. The book falls from his lap to the floor. 

“Come with me, I’ll fill you in on the way.” 

And fill him in Tony does—both of the men grateful for the cover of darkness as they maneuver to Tony’s private floor where Peter currently is residing. Over the last few months, Tony had noticed strange behavior in the younger man: namely, an increase in libido. 

“I wrote it off,” Tony admits. “He’s young, I’m not. The kid can get it up if the wind blows his direction, aren’t all teenagers that way? But this—it wasn’t normal. We went to Bruce, and he determined it all came down to hormones. A typical male’s hormones peak right at adulthood, but there’s nothing typical about a teen with mutated DNA. He’s on me like dried gum on a park bench, day and night. I’m only human, Barnes. I’m _human_!”

“What the fuck do you want me to do about this?” Bucky wonders, standing cautiously outside the master bedroom of the penthouse. “Sounds like a personal problem. A _private_ problem. That should probably be handled between _the two of you_ —” 

“We can play coy when Peter isn’t in there trying to suck his own dick. Everyone knows you’ve got a hard-on for him, and trust me when I say the feeling is mutual—Jesus, why do you look even more terrified now than you did before? I’m saying we _like_ you—” 

“ _We_?”

Tony clears his throat. “Well, this is hardly the time to discuss the semantics. I’m saying that Peter is fine with this, I’m fine with this. For fuck’s sake, if my cock could have six solid hours without him trying to ride it, I’d feel like a new man. That serum you’ve got gives you increased stamina, and I’m willing to bet that translates pretty fucking nicely between the sheets. Maybe you’ll be able to scratch this itch that’s driving him crazy. Are you in or are you out?” 

Bucky wipes at his face, letting out a deep breath through his nose. When Tony woke him a handful of minutes before, this was hardly what he had expected. Glancing at the door to the bedroom (closed, innocent, no noise from the other side), he shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. 

“Come on,” Bucky says roughly. “If he is how you say he is, then I won’t keep him waiting.” 


	26. Tony/Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could I get a drabble involving Tony going to a strip club and being absolutely mesmerized by Peter working it on the pole?
> 
> Warnings: mentions of Stucky.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more uncomfortable than you do now, Cap.”

“He looked like this that time you made us all play truth or dare,” Bucky says, deadpan. He’s the antithesis of his boyfriend with his brooding face and dark tactical gear. Tony isn’t sure there’s anything that could phase the ex-Winter Soldier as he takes in the sights around them with apathetic efficiency. Beside him, Steve is doing his best to avoid looking at anything, his face tinted red as the stripes on his shield.

“I’m not embarrassed about being uncomfortable in a place local mafia was using as an undercover headquarters, Tony,” Cap says. He catches sight of one of the dancers being escorted out after questioning, dressed in her day-clothes but still covered in glitter. He turns away. “As a matter of fact, I’m concerned that you aren’t more uncomfortable—”

“Stark’s been in a million joints like this,” Bucky says with a smirk.

“What, strip clubs? Sure. Mafia-run ones? No. Granted, not to my _knowledge_ , but—excuse me, what the fuck is this?”

All three men turn towards the main stage where the dancing occurred. Before they’d infiltrated this strip club in the seedier parts of the Brooklyn, they’d called in every local Avenger. That included one Peter Parker at home for a semester break from MIT. It was one of his first missions with the team after graduating high school and becoming an official _adult_.

His behavior is…certainly adult-like. With the club empty while SHIELD agents comb through it for more evidence, he had removed his mask and was standing onstage with Natasha. Tony didn’t need to be close enough to know that she must be goading him on, planting some seed in his brain, because the kid reaches out with one curious hand towards the gleaming pole and strokes his palm down it.

Natasha speaks (they’re too far away for him to make out any more than her tone), raising her hands up to mime holding on to the pole, and like the ever-obedient student he is, Peter mimics her. Using upper body strength that Tony has noticed far too many times for it to be mistaken as platonic admiration, the kid hoists his slim figure up. One long leg arcs out and the momentum carries him around into a fireman’s spin, smooth as if the kid’s been stripping with the best of them, and _Jesus Christ_ , Tony’s mouth goes dry and his stomach seizes into a tight knot at the sight.

“Peter!” Steve calls. “What in the hell are you doing?”

The kid beams at them from across the room. “Natasha says this one is called a cartwheel—!” He lifts himself clear off the floor, legs lifting up away from the ground and fanning in, well, admittedly a very cartwheel-esque way—

“Get down from there! Natasha, come on!” Steve scolds, crossing the room.

“I’m going to add that to the long list of things in my life that I can’t unsee,” Bucky mutters conversationally.

Tony clears his throat, grateful that the suit hides his erection, grateful that FRIDAY records all footage, even when his faceplate is retracted. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”


	27. Peter/Tony "Deepthroat"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Tony teaching peter how to deepthroat in multiple sessions?
> 
> Warnings: deepthroating. Oral sex. Choking. Nff.

Tony’s hand pets through the sweating curls at the nape of Peter’s neck. Mimicking a touch-starved cat, Peter nuzzles into the grip, leaning so that his cheek rests flat against Tony’s inner thigh while he catches his breath. Every pant fans across Tony’s cock, red and aching and growing cool as the saliva on it evaporates.

He clears his throat. “I feel obliged to say—again—that you don’t have to try this. I hope you know that I find our sex life very, very fulfilling. Christ, kid, you leave me wanting for nothing, you know that right?”

“I know,” Peter says. His voice is raw from the battering his throat has taken. Just the sound of it makes Tony’s cock jerk where it stands inches from his lover’s face. Jesus, all his pretty words and his cock is still giving him away, still showing how hot-blooded this whole thing is making him. What shit he is. “I’m just not used to not being able to do something, you know? I can bend myself into pretzels. I, I can hold my breath for several minutes. Why can’t I just deepthroat you?”

Tony swallows. His fingers work, petting Peter absently. “I don’t know, kid. All you just reminded me is how talented you are. Don’t hurt yourself over this.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He takes one long, shuddering breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth. Tony’s cock jumps. “I want to try again. Is that okay?”

He barely holds back the groan that threatens to crawl up the back of his throat. He takes his own deep breath and hopes to God that he looks more put together than he is. Peter has been at it for over thirty minutes now, and Tony has been the perfect test subject so far, keeping still and letting him go at his own pace. But holding off from cumming every time Peter’s throat tightens in a gag around the sensitive head of his cock is taking a toll on his self-control. And his balls.

“Go for it, Pete,” Tony says. He takes his hand from Peter’s hair. He doesn’t trust himself. “Remember: go slow. Fight the urge. Breathe deep through your nose.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter snarks. Then he opens his mouth and swallows Tony’s cock whole—not whole, that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? About how Peter can’t take more than five inches before he gags and has to pull away—and Tony’s fingers tangle in the bedspread underneath his thighs, teeth gritting while he struggles not to thrust up into that tight, wet heat.

Peter knows nothing about going slow. He forces himself to take Tony’s cock deep, deeper, and the first gag comes quicker than the last several. It’s like a tight fist squeezing around the head of him, and Tony can’t help but groan, muscles in his legs tightening as he fights to keep still. Peter breathes and breathes, eyes streaming tears, but he can’t fight his body’s instinctive urge and he pulls off for a moment, gasping for air, sticky saliva linking his reddened lips to Tony’s aching cock. After a few breaths, he forces himself back down, and this is it, there’s just no way. He’s just human.

“Fuck—Pete—pull off, I’m—”

Peter pulls back at the last possible moment, eyes wide and red with tears. He reaches up and wraps a fist around Tony’s wet cock, squeezing with wonderful, agonizing pressure as the older man’s balls draw up and he cums. The pleasure, withheld for so long is close to pain with the way it aches in his gut, and it feels like he cums for a lifetime, striping Peter’s chest with pearlescent seed.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “I tried to hold off—”

“Tony. Hey.” Peter stops him with a hand on his cheek—the hand not covered in cum. He makes quite a fucking sight, face red and wet with tears, chest lean and muscular and dripping cum. Like some expensive, beautiful, erotic artwork. He smiles. “It’s okay. That just means we can practice more. Tomorrow maybe? Later tonight? In an hour?”

“Jesus,” Tony mutters, gasping a laugh. He shakes his head. “Fine kid. Whatever you want. But if you think I’m getting it up again in an hour after cumming like that, I’ll be sorry to have to disappoint you.”


	28. Peter/Tony "Check Yes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How about some fluffy Valentine's starker

Morgan sits at the kitchen table half-obscured by the heaping pile of candy in front of her, a sugar-sweet Mt. Everest. The sight of it makes his temples throb; that’s what he and his ex-wife (and co-parent) Pepper get for working so hard to keep her diet free of artificial sugar: on Christmas and Easter and every special occasion in between that dangles candy in front of their five-year-old, it shocks her system and leaves her bouncing off the walls.

“What’s all that, Morganite?”

“Valentine’s Day stuff,” she says. A pile of cards sits beside the candy. She only glances at each one before tossing it aside. Generic ones, cartoon themed with neat parents’ penmanship writing out each name of their child’s schoolmates. Tony had never gone to public school, never experienced the ritualistic exchanging of Valentine’s Day cards and candy during class. Just another normal childhood experience he never had—but the smile on Morgan’s face soothes any ache in his heart.

“Try not to eat your weight in chocolate, okay? I want you to eat a real dinner. A green one. With raw, crunchy things that will make your bones grow.” He ruffles her hair as he walks by.

One card has made it further away from the rest. He reaches out to nudge it back towards her pile but the name on it catches his eye.

TONY.

Tony blinks. He picks up the card. It’s handmade but tasteful, no cartoon sponges or dogs on it. The seal (a cute little heart sticker that has been folded in half to hold it closed) is unbroken. “What’s this?” Tony asks her.

Morgan glances up before looking back down at the sucker she is struggling to detach from its wrapper. “Oh. Harley gave me that. He said it’s from his daddy and he wanted me to give it to you.”

Harley—Peter’s son. Tony’s throat spasms. In his mind, he sees the slender young man with tired, warm eyes who comes to all the PTA meetings. He’s the only other one who drinks the caffeinated coffee, even at seven-at-night. Clear skin, a cut jaw-line, and Tony would be lying, absolutely lying if he hadn’t watched the young man’s khaki-clad ass when he turns to walk away. Lying if he said that he didn’t go to half of those useless PTA meetings because he knew Peter would always be there.

He hates the split the little sticker heart, but he’s more eager to see what might be inside.

Written in scrawling handwriting ( _a sign of intellect_ , Tony thinks distantly): **Tony. I’m looking for a Valentine. Want to get coffee this weekend? Day or night. Text YES or NO. xoxo Peter** Below it is his phone number.

“Let me see—” Morgan snatches the card from his hand—God, when had she even moved? His five year old usually has all the stealth of a herd of elephants, except for when it’s inconvenient for him. Before he can stop her, Morgan opens the card and frowns at the writing there. Dear God. Instead of asking him any questions that he might not have easy answers to, she just scoffs and tosses the card onto the table. “He didn’t even get you any candy. Lame. Daddy, do you want me to tell Harley that his dad owes you candy?”

Tony snorts. “No, baby. I’m going to message him and give him a piece of my mind about it right now.”

But the text he sends is short, one word, a simple YES. xoxo


	29. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Self Care"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: wis Peter and Bucky trying to get tony to leave the lab/work and have a meal with them. Maybe they resort to sexy tactics. Maybe the sounds of an enthusiastic bj from his couch pull him from his engineering stupor

“Does that sandwich look touched to you?” 

Tony blinks. His eyes swim with double vision for a moment before the two images swim back into one and he sees Bucky and Peter standing at the entrance to the lab. They’re doing a remarkable impression of school marms, expressions twisted with matronly disapproval, mouths stern and arms crossed. 

“Sandwich?” Tony asks. “What—” 

Then his eyes are drawn down to a plate placed beside an upended pile of socket wrenches of various sizes. It’s not just a sandwich, there are chips too, his favorite kind, the ones he licks his fingers after eating. He considers himself a sandwich connoisseur and can tell its contents even halfway across the room: thick slices of wheat bread, tomatoes, lettuce, some kind of white meat (turkey, if he trusts his growling gut), mayo. 

“We brought that down here an hour ago,” says Bucky. He reaches out, metal fingers caressing the lip of the plate and turning it 180 degrees. “But it doesn’t look like you’ve touched it.” 

“We’ve talked about this,” Peter says. “You said that you would take more breaks—” 

“And I meant to, sugarplum, honest. But the modern-day electric propulsion system engine isn’t going to revolutionize itself. Look, leave it there and I’ll eat it when I’m finished and on my way up to the penthouse. I promise.” 

“We’re just going to stick around then,” Bucky says. He puts a hand on the small of Peter’s back and guides the kid over to the couch that Tony passes out on more nights than he’d care to admit. “Make sure you’re makin good on that promise.” 

“Feel free,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. Even when he turned his back to them, he could feel the heavy gaze of disapproval burning into his back. One of them was bad enough, but when the two teamed up on Tony, they could be downright petty and stubborn in their attempts to make sure he did human things like eat, shower, sleep. A fondness stirs in his gut—it feels good to have people who care about him—but sometimes he wishes that those same people cared just as much about the science! 

“Go on then,” Bucky murmurs, voice low enough that the words are almost lost in the hum of the HVAC system. 

Tony hums a question, but it becomes clear that Bucky was speaking to Peter and not him. There is the rustle of movement, a backtrack to his own thoughts as he works. 

“Lookit you,” Bucky says. “Filthy. Absolutely dirty, sweet thing.” 

Tony’s eyebrows raise. He chances a look over his shoulder and his gut clenches—Peter is no longer sitting on the sofa beside Bucky but is down between the other man’s spread knees. Barnes looks obscenely huge compared to Peter’s figure, thighs thick and well-showcased by the denim of the jeans he wears. Peter has a hand planted on each knee as he leans forward, dragging his tongue over the bulge in the crotch of Bucky’s jeans. A metal hand glints in the light as Bucky tangles his fingers in Peter’s hair, stroking with tenderness. 

“What, lab sex is a thing now? Last time I checked it was No Tony, there are too many dangerous chemicals, Tony, I can’t do it with the bots watching us, Tony.” 

“Changed our minds, didn’t we?” Bucky asks. Peter’s fingers move to the man’s belt, pale against the denim and leather as he works to unbuckle it. Bucky shifts up so that Peter can work a hand in and pull out his cock, almost fully hard, thick and long and somehow still ridiculously flattered even by the fluorescent lighting in the lab. Ignoring Tony, Bucky says, “Go on, Pete. You’ve been beggin for it all night, haven’t you? You’ve earned it, I’d say.” 

Peter makes a noise in his throat, opening his mouth wide to let the cut, flushed head rest on the flat of his tongue before taking it into his mouth as much as he can, eyes fluttering closed as he groans like it’s the best treat he’s had all day. 

“Fuck me, you’re good,” Bucky grunts. “Such a good boy. You’d do anything I say, wouldn’t you sweet thing? You’d choke yourself on it if I asked you to. Go on, then. Choke yourself.” 

The wet sound of Peter gagging has Tony’s stool screeching as he stands, cock half-hard in his own jeans. He takes one step towards them before Bucky makes an unhappy noise, holding up one finger in warning. 

“You want to join?” Bucky asks. “You can go second after Peter finishes sucking me off. But first, you’ve got to eat that entire sandwich. And every last chip, Tony. Otherwise, you can just sit your pretty ass on that stool and watch Peter finish me off, and then watch the two of us head back upstairs. It’s up to you. What’s it gonna be, then?” 

Tony swallows, a muted click in his throat that Bucky can apparently hear if the way his smirk widens says anything. Another wet noise as Peter takes too much into his mouth, throat constricting around the head of Bucky’s cock, and Tony’s own gut clenches in remembrance of just how good it feels to be in that wet, silken heat. 

He crosses the room to the sandwich, takes a handful of chips and stuffs them into his mouth, eyes glued to the scene on his sofa. 

Bucky lets his head fall back, smiling as his eyes slip shut to focus on the sensations between his legs. “Good choice, sugar. Best choice.”


	30. Tony/Bucky "Tattoo"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none. 
> 
> Prompt: Bucky sees Tony's tattoo in the shower.

The first time Bucky asks, Tony can’t hear him over the roar of the gym showers. The guy has a quiet voice on his best days, not to mention that he mostly addresses Tony in mumbles and even whispers. When Tony glances over from where he’s soaping himself up, he sees that Bucky isn’t even pretending to wash himself. He’s standing stock still under the spray, his eyes glued down to where soap trails over Tony’s abs (not super-soldier abs, but in-decent-shape-for-a-fifty-year-old abs). 

“ **Is that a tattoo?** ” Bucky repeats. 

Tony glances down. “Oh, yeah. It’s MIT’s crest.” 

“Thought you went to college when you were just a kid.” 

“A friend of a friend had the equipment. They said I was a pussy for worrying about cleanliness so I sterilized it and did it myself. I signed my name on some Urban Planning major, too, just because she asked. The color has faded a lot over the years.” Tony stops talking, mouth open to continue barreling on but—Bucky is still staring down, down at the vague vicinity of where Tony’s tattoo is but also towards other key parts of Tony’s anatomy. Let it never be said that his voyeuristic nature had been abandoned in his youth because just the feeling of the ex-assassin’s eyes on him is a heady, thrilling thing. 

Tony clears his throat. “I’m not sure how much you know about proper social etiquette these days, but usually people don’t stare at each other in the showers like this.” 

“No?” Bucky asks, voice almost lost in the pounding of the water on the tiles. Pale eyes flicker up to meet Tony’s own before trailing back down, following that line of suds that has long since been washed away until it lands on—the tattoo. Surely. 

“It’s quite suggestive, to be honest. I’ve seen so much porn that begins like this, I can’t even—” 

Bucky’s knees hit the tile with a wet thwack like he’s fallen to them instead of kneeled. Tony can’t help the shuffling step he takes backward, through the spray of his own showerhead and bumping his back on the cool tiles behind him. The unwilling attraction he’s been harboring for the other man since his return to the United States is mostly buried under plenty of self-loathing and incredulity, but the water and steam is washing it away, or maybe it’s just the way Bucky is looking at him, eyes fixed and focused. 

“What are you doing?” Tony asks. 

“Just—looking,” Bucky says. But he reaches out with metal fingers, reaching slowly so as to give Tony plenty of time to pull away. Tony feels fixed in place, holding his breath, not even flinching when the water-warmed fingers wrap around his hip to pull him forward. 

“Hell of a vantage point you’ve got there,” breathes Tony. 

Bucky only glances up for a single moment before leaning in and—holy fuck, holy fuck, Bucky Barnes is seriously about to suck him off in the Avengers Compound’s gym showers, put that in the books, only, wait—the man opens his mouth and leads with his teeth, scraping them over the outline of the crest and then soothing it with his tongue, sucking the skin into his mouth. The gray eyes fall closed while he sucks Tony’s skin free of warm water, laving his tongue against the sensitive skin. 

Tony’s eyes do not fall closed. He watches feeling on the verge of a stroke. Maybe he’s already had a stroke, maybe he fell in the shower and these are the last hallucinogenic fantasies of an oxygen-starved brain, but if so, Tony isn’t going to fight them. He reaches out, half-afraid to touch the man and see him dissolve into the smoke dreams are made of, petting pruning fingers through the silken, sodden hair. 

When Bucky pulls away, the skin beneath his mouth is red and darkening, a livid bruise. 

“I’m guessing that you like it,” Tony says, shaking. 

Bucky stands up, shuffling away back to the stream of his own showerhead. He shrugs one shoulder, reaching out for soap to begin lathering himself up, leaving Tony to pant and place one palm against the shower wall lest his knees give out.


	31. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Collaboration"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none. 
> 
> Prompt: Spiderman vs. wintersoldier for Tony's love until they decide to team up!

With a hand firmly gripping both of their shoulders, Tony maneuvers the Winter Soldier and Spiderman through the hallways of the Avenger’s compound like a stern school matron escorting wayward pupils to the headmaster’s office. Taking a sudden turn, he pushes them towards the nearest empty conference room. Peter is merciful enough to reach out and open the door so that Tony can press the both of them inside. 

“What the fuck was that about?” Tony asks lowly, still in the doorway. Peter and Bucky stand awkwardly, neither willing to sit amongst the chairs surrounding the conference table. Barnes is still wearing his tactical gear, though he begins to disrobe, angrily setting each piece on the empty table. Neither of them answers, so Tony barrels on. “You two acted like idiots out there. You acted like I’m some sort of damsel in distress. I’m Iron-Man! That doesn’t mean that I need the two of you tripping over each other every time a villain looks in my direction. Today, it cost us our lead. Fury is up in arms blaming me and told me to find a solution to whatever dick-measuring contest you’re both trying to have. Do you have anything to say for yourselves? Now’s the part where you talk.” 

Peter crosses his arms over his chest, staring resolutely at his feet. Barnes at least will look at him, giving Tony a heated glance that says a lot, if only Tony was capable of translating. 

“Alright. Then this is how we’re solving it.” Tony steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him. “FRI, lock the conference room. Don’t open the doors until Peter and Bucky are willing to, I don’t know, hug or something.” 

“Can do, boss,” his girl chimes. 

The doorknob rattles. 

“Come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter calls, voice muted by the wood. “This is, this is childish!” 

_“La la la la_ , I can’t hear you. Are you hugging yet?” 

The rattling stops. Tony holds his breath, but he still can’t hear anything. “FRI,” he whispers. “Get audio in my ears. I want to know what’s going on in there.” 

“…do as he says. Maybe we can come to some sort of understanding,” Peter says. 

There is a sharp screeching sound. “These chairs should be enough to break the reinforced windows,” Barnes mutters. “ _If_ we throw them hard enough. I’ll scale down the side of the building and you can stay here making origami daisy chains so Tony keeps thinking of you as his golden boy.”

“You’re joking, right?” Peter asks. “He’s just as mad at me as he is at you. I’m a human, not a golden retriever or something!” 

Barnes doesn’t respond. If he throws a chair through one of Tony’s windows, it’s coming out of the super soldier’s paycheck.

Peter continues on: “We need to talk about this. We messed up big out there and it cost the team. I get that we both want to protect Tony, but we can’t do that at everyone’s expense.” 

“I’ve got an idea,” Barnes says. “ _You_ can back off, and _I’ll_ protect Tony.” 

Peter groans. “Come on! **We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground**. Can’t we come to an understanding?” 

“FRIDAY,” Tony mutters under his breath, adjusting his earpiece. Something in his chest is tight like he’s inside a shirt that’s a size too small. “You’re fucking up the audio, baby girl. Enhance and get rid of any extraneous feedback.”

“This isn’t a game to me,” Barnes says. “I have so much working against me. You couldn’t even begin to understand. He’s just starting to view me as something besides his mortal enemy. I don’t have time to worry about being friendly. I’m thinking of him day and night, how to make up for my past, how to connect with him now, how to make him see me as more than a murder machine.” 

“You’re not a murder machine. You were brainwashed,” Peter says gently. 

“Okay, so maybe he doesn’t see me as a murderer. But that’s a far fucking cry from how I want him to see me.” 

“Maybe—” Peter cuts himself off. Tony leans in further even though the sound comes from inside his earpiece and isn’t based on how close he is to the door. Some employees walk by and he waves them on distractedly. 

“What?” Barnes asks. 

“Maybe we could work together.” 

“What do you mean? A threesome?” 

Tony’s eyes widen. 

“N-no! God! I just meant. I mean, you want Mr. Stark to see you as more, and I’m the same way. He still sees me as a fifteen-year-old from Queens. What if we pretended to be together? That would give you a chance to show Tony a softer side of yourself. You know. If one exists—ow! Hey! Uncalled for! It would give me a chance too. Maybe if he sees me dating someone older, he’ll see me as more available.” 

There is a long silence, broken only by Tony’s pounding heart. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing—he’ll have to relisten to this conversation ten or ten thousand times just to make sure he isn’t having auditory hallucinations. 

“Jesus,” Barnes mutters. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. But what do I have to lose?” 

“Should we make it official? Hug it out?” 

_Oh no_ , Tony thinks to himself. He barely manages to lurch away from the door before he hears the lock unclick, and by the time the door is opening, he is just turning the corner at the end of the hall, hoping that he hasn’t been seen. 


	32. Peter/Tony "Velvet Box"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony proposes to Peter, but Peter doesn't believe he's worth it.

Tony nudges the velvet box along the railing of the balcony. Peter’s hand shakes in the moonlight as he reaches out and brushes his fingers over the soft surface. Inside is a band of brushed palladium melted down from the first arc reactor that Pepper had (re)gifted him with. The symbolism is on point. Peter Parker already owns many pieces of Tony’s heart; this will be just another to add to the collection. 

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” Tony admits, scouring Peter’s face for a sign of how he feels. “I’m prone to making fusses, you know me. But I know you graduate MIT in the spring and we’ve kept ourselves low-key for the most part. If you don’t want to wear it yet, or at all, then I understand. I hope that you’ll hold on to it though, as a promise of sorts.” 

“We’ve only been dating officially for six months,” Peter remarks. His hands pick up the velvet box, but he doesn’t open it.

“I’m sure,” says Tony. “I was sure five months ago when I had it made. I’m even more sure, now. If that helps. The million-dollar question is, are _you_ sure, kid? Or do you think you could ever be sure, taking a bet on an old man like me?” 

Peter sits the box down. When he looks out over Manhattan, Tony can see the lights reflected in his misty eyes. He reaches up and palms at one to wipe the moisture away before it can fall. It’s not a yes, Tony thinks, the knowledge dropping like a stone in his stomach. Peter isn’t going to say yes. Pepper had warned him about breaking out the ring too soon, but Tony hadn’t listened to her, and now with all his cards out on the table, the kid looked like he was going to do something drastic. 

“I can’t,” Peter says. “I’m so sorry. I can’t take it.” 

Tony moves it back towards himself. There’s a knot in his throat the size of a size eight engagement band and twice as hard to swallow around, but he does. “Alright,” he says. “Okay. Can I ask why? Is that, is that allowed? It’s not often someone says no to me, kid, you’ll have to tell me the proper protocol here.” 

His joke falls flat. Peter’s eyes drip tears faster than he can wipe them away. And to think, when Tony had invited Peter out onto the balcony for drinks after another successful, incredible date together, he thought that this would be the perfect ending to a perfect night. 

“I’ve just been fooling myself,” Peter admits. “Ever since we managed to bring you back after Thanos. I told myself that it was okay to be so demanding of you and your time. I, I deserved some of you too, didn’t I? After going without you for so long? But I’ve been so greedy. Someone like you, you deserve someone like Miss Potts, or someone else equally incredible and beautiful and good, and it’s just not me.” 

“I love you,” Tony says. “Shouldn’t that be enough?” 

“ **You love me like I deserve you** ,” says Peter, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling. “But I don’t. Everything that happened when you were gone proves that. Everything overseas with Beck—” 

“Stop right there,” Tony says, reaching out to take one of Peter’s fists and soothe the trembling fingers, coaxing them to open and lace with his own. “You were seventeen, kid. I shouldn’t have put so much on your shoulders, but for what’s it worth, I think you handled it with all the grace anyone could have. I’m not keeping track of things you did when you were a child. I really hope you’re not keeping track of the things I did when I was a child. You know. Last year.” 

Peter breathes a wet laugh, and the sound is like a buoy to Tony’s heart lifting it up, up from inside his chest. He lets himself be drawn together until they are chest to chest, all pounding hearts, holding each other like the wind is likely to carry them away if they let go. 

“Maybe you’re right, kid,” Tony murmurs into his curls. “Maybe you don’t deserve me. You deserve better than me. But I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You look at me like the sun shines out of my chest, and like a proper opportunistic businessman, I’m going to capitalize on that. So what do you say? Peter, will you wear my ring?” 

Peter pulls away, eyes dark and wide and wet searching over Tony’s face. At last, he reaches out with nervous fingers to pick up the velvet box again. Only this time, he opens it. 


	33. Peter/Tony "Mistaken"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony asks Peter to go steady. Peter thought they already were.

“This place is really nice,” Peter remarks. He looks so handsome in his button-up shirt, collar open the way Tony likes to keep his own. Why Tony began to notice such a detail, he has no idea. Peter used to wear his dress shirts with every last button fastened right up to his pale throat, but then he went away to college, and when he came home? A single button open. The distinction sticks in Tony’s brain. 

The restaurant is casual enough not to have candlelight, but Tony can’t help but think he’d look breathtaking lit up in flickering flame when the kid smiles and goes on, “You’re lucky I’m taking French at NYU so I can understand some of this menu, though.” 

Tony grins, nudging his foot under the table. “Good to know that Stark Industries scholarship is paying off, kid. Order whatever you want, tonight is on me.” 

Peter smiles, soft and sweet and a little flushed. “Okay, Tony. Thanks. Are you okay?” 

“Me? Of course. Why do you ask?” 

“Because you’re doing that thing you do when you’re nervous.” 

“What thing? Are you saying I have a tell?” 

“Several,” Peter says slyly. He shuts the menu, and something vulnerable twists in his features. “Is everything okay? With, with _us_ , I mean?” 

Tony blinks. “Of course, kid. Better than okay. I mean, I guess that’s why I wanted to go out tonight. Maybe it’s the reason I’m exhibiting non-existent tells, I don’t know. I’m not usually nervous, Pete. I just, I wanted to talk to you. About us. We’ve been spending a lot of time together since you graduated NYU, and I know that it’s mostly been in the lab and doing Avenger work, not counting our weekly dinners on Friday nights, but, Jesus, maybe I _am_ nervous, is it hot in here? Peter, flag down that waiter. It’s way too hot in here.” 

“Tony, what’s going on? Just tell me, I can take it.” 

“You’re right. The temperature is fine. You’re right. I guess I was hoping that all time we’ve been spending together…it’s changed the way I see you, is all. I was wondering if it’s changed the way _you_ see _me_. Am I just your older albeit awesome mentor? Or do you see more in me?” 

“Uh, _more_?” 

“Good! That’s good. Better than good. I wanted to know if you’d let me take you out sometime, for real. As more than colleagues or friends.” 

“Tony.” 

“I know, the age difference is a lot. People will talk, the media always has something to say. And maybe the age does have something to do with it; I’m getting older, and I know I won’t live forever. I want to spend my time with people who care about me, people who I care about, and when I think about a list of those people, you are always on my list, kid. The top of my list. I just hope that you can give it a chance. Give me a chance.” 

Peter leans forward to plant both elbows on the table and hide his face in his hands. It’s not the posture Tony was hoping to see, and he can feel the wine they’ve been sipping souring in his stomach and turning his mouth dry. He reaches out to sip at his water but it doesn’t help. When Peter looks up at last, his whole face is red. “You know, Tony, **you’re a genius with facts, but you’re really stupid with people**.”

“I’ll give you that.”

“I thought this was our three month anniversary,” Peter says, his eyes misty. 

“ _What_?”

“You’re telling me I thought we were dating for three whole months and you thought we were just _colleagues_? Oh my god. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me. But what _else_ was I supposed to think, with the, the dinners and the hugging and the gifts and the movie nights and all the time in the lab?” 

Tony’s mouth opens but no words come out. When Peter reaches for his napkin to dab at his eyes, Tony’s stupor breaks and he reaches across the table to take the kid’s free hand in his own, the skin becoming just as calloused from their hours working with tools but no less soft when he traces a thumb over the hills and valleys of his knuckles. “Kid. I’m so sorry. Jesus, this is a classic Tony move if I’ve ever heard of one. Pepper’s going to die. Anyway, if you’d still have me, I’d love another chance. Imagine how good of a boyfriend I might be when I’m actually trying, huh?” 

Peter snorts. The hand in Tony’s turns until they can lace their fingers together as best as they can from across the table. He squeezes gently. “Okay. I mean, of _course_. But if anything, Tony, I think this just means you don’t really have to try at all.”


	34. Tony/Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: Bucky tries to convince Tony that the sex would be worth it.

“ **If you want to get me naked, you’ll have to convince me that it’ll be worth my time** ,” says Tony. 

Bucky raises both eyebrows. “Do you want me to tell you how it will go?” 

“Please do,” Tony says, pausing to sip at his whiskey. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you just said—how it will go. Cocksure, aren’t you?”

“Confident.” 

“Go on, then. I’m all ears.” 

“First of all, I’m not going to get you naked. You’re going to get yourself naked. Slow. You’re going to stop when I say, and start when I say, and turn so that I can see you from every angle I please. I’m tired of looking at you from the corner of my eye, scared someone else will see me gaping at you. I want to see every last inch up close and personal, and then, when you’re naked?” Bucky pauses, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms across his broad chest. “Then I’m going to punish you.” 

Tony nearly chokes on his whiskey. “Excuse me? Punish me? What am I, a child?” 

“You’re worse than a child,” says Bucky. “Because you’re far smarter but with just as few scruples. You didn’t have any mercy on a man these last few weeks, did you honey? Keeping the temperature in the lab high so that you’d have an excuse to take your clothes off around me. All those ‘routine maintenance sessions’ for my arm you called me down here for just so you could cop a feel of me, watch me get hard for you and not be able to do a goddamn thing about it. Sitting beside me every chance you get just to rub up against me. You’ve had me on a hair trigger for ages now just for your own amusement. I’d say that calls for punishment. Don’t you?”

Tony swallows, pausing to run his tongue over his teeth. It’s a good thing he’s behind the table and there’s no chance Barnes can see his hard-on, though by the way the man’s eyes are glittering, he knows. He absolutely knows. “Say I _did_ deserve punishment. What does that entail exactly?” 

Bucky’s smile is cold and calculated. “Punishments should fit the crime, right? So it’s only fitting that I get to drive _you_ as crazy as you’ve been driving me. I’m gonna put you someplace comfortable so that I can tie you up and touch you anywhere I want, any _way_ I want. I’ll taste every part of you, tongue and teeth. I’ll watch you struggle and pull against your ropes and beg me for a little reprieve, and I won’t give you a damn thing. I want to see you desperate, and right now you don’t even know the meaning of the word. 

“And don’t think that it won’t take a toll on me too, honey, because it will. I’ll be so hard I could pound nails with the thing, that’s guaranteed. When I can’t take it anymore, I’ll take out my cock and let you watch me while I jerk off. That’s _my_ mercy. And if you’re good (and I’m not counting on it), maybe I’ll cum on you before I tuck myself, head back up to my room and leave you here. 

“How long would it take you to get out of the ropes do you think? I bet your first order of business wouldn’t even be cleaning yourself off. You’d just wrap a hand around your aching cock and fuck your fist, wouldn’t you?” Bucky pauses, clearing his throat. The whiskey in Tony’s hand is halfway to his mouth and frozen there in place, and the sight of it makes the corner of Bucky’s mouth curl up. “And tomorrow, we’ll see what kind of tune you’re singing about _if_ I’m worth your time.” 

Careful, so that his trembling hands don’t cause him to drop the glass, Tony sits the whiskey on the lab table in front of him. “I—” he has to stop to clear his throat. “How did that start again? Refresh my memory.” 

Bucky smiles. “Starts with you taking your clothes off for me. Shirt first, Tony. And like I said—do it real slow for me. I’ve got nothing _but_ time.”


	35. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Fair"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony walks in on Peter and Bucky together and then decides to join them.

This is what he sees: 

Peter is sprawled backward on the silken sheets. They’re the dark ones, the ones that make Peter’s skin look like milk in the moonlight that streams through the windows of their bedroom together. He’s still wearing a shirt (Tony’s shirt, Tony notices distantly, a soft and well-worn one with holes singed through from sparks in his lab) but it is rucked up to under his arms baring his chest with the pale pink nipples and his abs flat and thrown into stark relief.

Bucky’s hand is pressed flat against those abs. It’s the metal one, so wide that it takes up most of the real estate on Peter’s stomach, pressing, pressing Peter back into the sheets with a strength Tony isn’t capable of while Peter bucks and whines and pulls those silken sheets apart between his fingers. Tony can’t blame him; if Bucky had Tony’s cock in his mouth, he’d probably be in a similar state of euphoria. 

One leg on either side of Peter’s own to help pin the kid down, Bucky has one palm braced on the mattress while he takes Peter’s cock down to the root, throat working, hair creating a curtain that Tony is desperate to part. 

At the sound of the bedroom door opening, Barnes pulls off and Peter sits up, both of them breathless but for different reasons, a string of saliva longing to keep Bucky’s mouth and Peter’s cock connected before it breaks. 

“Tony,” Bucky rasps, voice wrecked. “This, **this isn’t what it looks like**.” 

“It isn’t?” Tony rubs at his eyes. The picture doesn’t change. “Looks pretty clear to me. Goddamnit Peter, how did you get to him first?” 

Peter leans back into his elbows, his face flushed and his lips spread wide in a smile. His chest still heaves and it’s clear that he was on the brink of orgasm before Tony so rudely interrupted. “I told you that he’d be more receptive to me. You owe me a week’s worth of unsupervised time in the lab.” 

Tony undoes his watch and sits it on the dresser, shrugging out of his jacket. “A bet is a bet. Alright, kid. One week. As long as you promise not to involve any radiation in your experiments, I’m sure Pepper can’t stop us.” 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “But what the fuck?” 

Tony pauses where he was removing his cufflinks. “You. Peter. Me. Us three. Together, in here and out there. What do you think I’ve been trying to talk to you about for the last two weeks? If you’d have stopped running, we could have all been in the throes of ecstasy ages ago.” 

“Didn’t want to be alone with you,” Bucky mutters. Carefully, his metal hand comes back up to lay flat on Peter’s abs again, unforgiving fingers soothing the muscles when they jump and tense. Peter’s cock still stands hard and desperate for attention, but there are even more pressing matters. “Didn’t trust myself to be alone with you.” 

Smiling, Tony rolls up his dress shirt sleeves and comes to stand by the bed. He reaches out, slow and careful to brush Bucky’s hair back until it all fits neatly in one fist and there is nowhere for the other man to hide. “It’s okay,” Tony promises. “We’ll make up for lost time. Now, how about you two pick up where you left off? I know all the tricks to drive Peter crazy.” 

“ _Noo_ ,” Peter groans. “That’s like, insider trading. Not fair!” 

“Who says I’m fair?” Bucky asks. He leans down at laps at the head of Peter’s cock, glancing upwards to Tony. “Ready when you are, Stark.” 


	36. Peter/Tony "Tattoo"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. Alcohol/Alcoholism mention.
> 
> Prompt: Tony spots Peter's first tattoo.

Peter doesn’t sulk back into the Tower. He’s not a child, no matter what Mr. Stark says. He’d turned eighteen months ago for crying out loud, and if he was old enough to do serious Avenging business, Peter felt he was old enough to be taken seriously and treated like an adult. That meant being able to stick around during mature Avenger parties. You know. With alcohol. 

Instead, Mr. Stark had basically kicked Peter out of his own home in the Tower and told him to visit with MJ and Ned. To do whatever kids these days are doing. Just remembering it had Peter’s blood boiling and his heart sinking. He’d do anything for Mr. Stark to view him as more than just a kid. MJ and Ned had taken advantage of Peter’s morose yet daring mood and had taken him out to three different apartments in Brooklyn while they got their hands on fake IDs and then to three different bars in different boroughs. 

Waking up to the sunrise, Peter could still feel the thrum of alcohol in his blood when he took the subway back to the Tower. The impending hangover was one he wanted to experience alone and not in MJ’s tiny apartment with Ned snoring on the couch above him. He was beginning to feel pain all over, in his head, in his aching feet. When he lifted his arms to stretch out the kinks in his stiff back, his shirt rode up exposing a few inches of skin to the chilly subway car, but the sensation of something catching on the cotton fabric had his hand wandering down to scratch at the place where his skin disappeared into the band of his jeans. Only—

His fingers touch plastic. Squinting, he glances down to see saran wrap stuck to his skin with masking tape and oh. Oh, no. 

It’s tasteful, honestly. Minimalistic. Just the tiniest little arc reactor tattooed right there above his hipbone. Despite the reddened skin, his disbelief demands he scrub at it with a thumb and fuck, ouch, yes, that’s real. 

So maybe Peter doesn’t sulk back into the Tower. It’s more like sneaking, creeping through the foyer and glancing into the main room to see the chaos that still is littered everywhere. Mr. Stark will have someone come in to clean the place later, but it’s still too early in the day, the sun barely up over the horizon. There’s still enough sunlight streaming in to show Mr. Stark though where he’s passed out on the couch in just his jeans and t-shirt, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. 

Peter holds his breath, creeping along. He’s just got to get past the older man and make it to the safety of his room. He can deal with everything else later. 

“FRIDAY woke me up when you entered the building, kid,” Tony says from beneath his arm. Peter jumps, heart hammering, breaking out in a cold sweat. Lack of coordination sends him stumbling into an end table where he knocks off a martini glass. Tony pulls his arm from his face to squint at Peter. “Are you drunk right now?” 

“Takes one to know one,” Peter snaps. 

Tony gapes. “I’m sorry, takes one to know one? One what? Alcoholic? Jesus, Peter, you’re not legal.” 

“Not legal to drink,” Peter amends. Because, you know. That’s an important distinction. 

“Fuck, I’m not sober enough to give you a proper dressing down,” Tony mutters, barely managing to get himself into a seated position. He points at Peter. “You imagine the stern talk I should be giving you, young man. Because it’s a good one. Downright scathing. God, am I rubbing off on you? Is this some, some teenage rebellion?” 

Peter rolls his eyes, arms crossing across his chest. “Wow. You’re dramatic when you’re drunk.” 

“I am rubbing off on you, listen to that mouth—Pete. What the fuck is that.” 

“What’s what? Is there something on my—oh. Oh.” 

Tony’s looking at Peter’s pelvis, where his shirt has ridden up thanks to his crossing arms. He’s squinting. **“Is that a tattoo?** ”

“No!” 

“Oh my god.”

“It’s not!”

“It really is, Jesus—” 

“It’s a sticker. Scratch and sniff. It’s, it’s temporary.” 

Tony stumbles up from his place on the couch and begins to weave across the room. Peter turns to bolt but his reflexes are lax, and to be fair, Mr. Stark has much more experience with holding his liquor. The man catches him easily, wrapping his fingers entirely around Peter’s wrist and gripping firmly enough that his mouth goes dry. 

Coaxing his arm up, Tony reaches down with warm fingers to ruck up Peter’s shirt the last few inches and Peter can hear when his heartbeat stutters and his breath catches in his throat. When he must see that in a drunken episode, Peter had practically branded himself with Tony’s logo. 

“I look good on you, kid,” Tony mutters lowly. When at last his eyes drag up and away from the tiny symbol, they burn into Peter’s own, heavy-lidded, mouth parted. The older man takes one firm, calloused thumb and presses against the fresh tattoo. The pain mixes with the thrill and makes Peter groan. “I’m way too drunk to be doing this,” Tony admits, eyes flickering down to Peter’s lips. 

“You can touch it,” Peter breathes. “That’s okay, that’s, that’s fine.” 

Tony hums. He lets the rest of his fingers wrap around the curve of Peter’s waist and grab hold of him firmly. “And what about the rest of you, kid?” 

“You can touch that too,” Peter promises.


	37. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Hex Party"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: Bucky tries to make new Wiccan friends on campus. Peter and Tony misread the flyer.

Bucky takes in a deep breath, looking over his supplies. Everything has its purpose and its place: the black candles he bought from a Wiccan store just off campus, bottle of Frankincense oil, the salt, the vinegar, the various other earthly ingredients he needs for the spells he hopes to cast tonight. His stomach rolls with anxiety, and he stops bouncing around his bedroom gathering supplies to listen for any sounds coming from the living room. Nothing. 

Taking Steve’s advice and putting out an add on the school website looking for other practicing witches in his area had been hard. The guy was too self-righteous, too confident. Ever since he’d started dating Peggy, he complained about how Bucky had no friends of his own and spent all his evenings reading in his room. Common interests were supposed to create friendships, right? That’s what the internet said. What Steve said. 

He just hadn’t expected the sort of people who would answer his ad. When he’d opened the door after the jaunty knock, he’d figured he would see some of the other goth kids from campus. There was definitely a girl in his World Religions class who practiced. But instead, there had been two ordinary (if not inexplicably, inordinately handsome) men standing on the other side. 

“Hi!” The younger one had said brightly. His face was flushed like he felt as nervous as Bucky. “We’re here about the ad?” 

“Yeah, of course. Come on in.” Bucky had stepped aside to grant them access. A whiff of cologne from the older one with the facial hair had him wanting to follow the scent wherever it led. He’d hastily told them to make themselves comfortable and get started while he gathered his supplies, but now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to muster the nerve to go back in.

God, Bucky hadn’t expected this complication at all. How’s he supposed to bond with these people when he’s going to be so busy stammering over every sentence and flushing whenever they glance his way? 

Deep breaths, Barnes, he tells himself. Common interests. 

When he opens the door back into the living room, he freezes. The supplies in his arms tumbled to the floor. 

Because the two attractive men are absolutely fucking right there on Bucky’s couch. The younger, thinner one is bent over one arm of the leather sofa with his fingers tangled in his own hair, looking to be on the brink of absolute madness. Bucky doesn’t blame him, not with the way the other man (Tony, he remembers from when they introduced themselves) is reaming him. Tony reaches down and grabs the nape of Peter’s neck to pull him up until their flush together, until he’s fucking up into the kid, muttering filth in his ear. 

“What the fuck!” Bucky says, louder than he intended, far more hysterical than he’d like. “What _is_ this?”

The two pause, breathing heavily. They must see in his face that something about this is Wrong. 

“ **This is…exactly what it looks like**?” Tony says, still struggling to catch his breath. 

“This is not Wicca!” Bucky shouts. 

“What?” Peter asks breathlessly. “The ad!” 

“ **I didn’t say “sex party” as in orgy** ,” Bucky says. “ **I said “hex party” as in witches!** ” 

“I’ll be completely honest when I say we thought that was a typo,” says Tony. He has the sense to look abashed, and carefully pulls his cock from inside his younger lover. But god when he turns and Bucky gets an eyeful, it’s no wonder the kid looked like he was losing his mind. It’s the largest cock Bucky’s ever seen outside of porn. “Unless you’re into this?” Tony wonders, head tilting, appraising Bucky from across the room with a dick that still glistens from the lube he’s slicked on. 

Bucky swallows. “What? I, I mean…” 

“Why don’t you join us,” Peter asks. “And then you can talk to us all about your, er, hexes? Afterward. I’d really like to cum right now.” 

Bucky can feel himself teetering on a strange precipice, unsure whether he will plunge himself off into the deep end or fall backward onto safety, onto what he knows, onto spending the rest of his night watching Netflix and texting Steve hoping he breaks up with Peggy. Taking a deep breath, Bucky sheds his shirt, enjoying the feeling of their eyes on him. “So,” he says, pausing to clear his throat. “Where should we start?”


	38. Peter/Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. Sextoys. 
> 
> Prompt: Peter patrols while wearing a vibrating plug. Tony has the remote.

“You know, I’m not sure how I feel about this,” Peter mutters to the air above the Skyline Tower. Clinging to the side of the tallest building in Queens feels like second nature, no pounding heart at the steep drop beneath him, no spinning head when the wind blows and the building sways gently beneath him. “I feel like you’re standing over my shoulder or something.” 

“Hardly,” Tony says. Peter can hear the smile in his voice and it makes him smile even from ten miles away. “I’m only watching your every move via the cameras in your suit. That’s much less invasive, right? Can’t even feel my breath on the back of your neck.” 

“Well now I’m imagining it,” Peter remarks, squirming. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” says Tony. “I promised no funny business when you’re in hero mode. If it’s a busy night for dog-nappers in Queens, you might not even know I’m here.” 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Peter mutters. But then a noise catches his ear, the sound of shattering glass. Pushing himself away from the building, he lets gravity do the work before casting a web and slinging lower, listening keenly to follow the sound. True to his word, Tony is completely silent. Under ordinary circumstances, Peter might be able to forget his presence. 

But there’s nothing ordinary about slinging around Queens with a vibrating plug up his ass. Just the thought has his face burning under the mask. When Tony had left it on the endtable beside Peter’s side of the bed, he’d looked over his shoulder to make sure he was alone before plucking it carefully from the hardwood. It’s smaller than they discussed, just a few inches long, and about the width of two of his own skinny fingers. Smooth, with a flared end that will sit nicely outside his rim. 

Peter had worn plugs before. It was kind of thrilling, a secret only he and Tony knew. Peter enjoyed the ones large enough that it was always on his mind, that every step and shift of his hips reminded him. This one wouldn’t be like that at all—then it bursts to life, delivering vibrations that Peter can feel all the way up to his fucking elbow. He’d looked up to see Tony in the doorway to their bedroom, remote in hand, face smug and eyes glittering. 

He’s thankful for the petite size of the plug while he’s acting as a makeshift trapeze artist. Sticking to a brick wall of a brewery, he holds his breath listening for more sound, glass crunching under boots. Crawling up and over the wall, he lets it lead him to a parking where a man stands, pulling up the lock of a four-door that’s seen better days. He doesn’t notice Peter’s presence until Peter is peeking over the other side of the car, the eyes of his mask narrowing in on a familiar face.

“Forget your keys, Frank?” Peter asks. 

The man gives Peter one look and groans. “Come on, spidey. Look away, bro! Look away!” 

“I’ve alerted local law enforcement, Peter,” Karen says through the interface in his suit. 

“Can’t do that,” says Peter, webbing Frank’s hand where it’s resting on the frame of the car. “What happened to your car, buddy? You were just telling me about your girl’s Camaro. It sounded like a sweet ride!” 

“Broke up,” Frank mutters, pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the car. “Fuck that bitch anyway. God, I miss her.” 

Sirens in the distance. Minutes away still, but Frank isn’t going anywhere. Peter can move on. “Life tip: quit calling women bitches.” 

“Man, fuck you,” Frank says. 

“Someday you’ll thank me!” Peter shouts, shooting a web and following it to the top of the nearest wall and then vaulting himself away. He’s still thinking about Frank, how this is the third time Peter’s caught him doing something like this and how it’s likely he’ll be facing harder, longer time—and then his entire body jolts. He almost misses his next web and plows into the side of a building. Instead, he sticks himself there, eyes squeezed shut, trembling from the vibrations that shake him to his core centered around the plug inside him. 

“Tony,” Peter gasps. 

“Yes, sugar plum?” The man asks. “I loved how you handled that, by the way, justice and life advice all in one, you’re a true jack of all trades.” 

“God, please,” Peter pants. He’s too sensitive, cock lengthening where it’s constricted by his suit. Soon the oversensitivity melts into pleasure that has him squeezing too hard where he clings to the wall, brick crumpling. He pulls his hand away—damaging private property isn’t cool. 

“We’re thirty seconds in, you’re begging already? Is that a testament to the plug I made, or are you really just that needy?” 

“Tell me you aren’t hard,” Peter says through his teeth, using his free hand to palm his cock through his suit. “And I’ll admit that I’m needy.” 

Tony clears his throat. The vibrations stop, and Peter whines, unsure if he’s glad or already missing them. “Go on, then,” Tony prompts. “Sorry to interrupt your patrolling. I’m sure there are many more situations in Queens that need your attention. I’ll just be a metaphorical fly on the wall here.” 

Peter manages to crawl to the top of the building where he sits along the edge, catching his breath and willing his erection away. The plug shifts inside him briefly and he groans, low in his throat. Tony laughs. God. Peter’s going to have to get creative when it comes to getting his revenge on his older lover. 

“Did you hear something?” Tony asks suddenly. 

Peter holds his breath, listening keenly. There are sounds all around him: cars, car alarms, nightlife. A million sounds he filters through, listening for whatever must have caught Tony’s attention. Frowning, he comes up empty. “No,” Peter admits. “Did you hear something?” 

The plug comes to life, Peter nearly flinging himself off the edge of the building in surprise. 

“Oh, no,” Tony admits. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t heard anything. Sorry, I’m not good at this fly on the wall thing. Hey, should I try a different setting? I made, like, twelve—” 

Peter makes a noise, somewhere between a yes and a no and a please God don’t stop, turn it off. Laying back until he’s flat against the roof, feet dangling down toward the ground, Peter pants into the sky with stars he can barely see, one hand grabbing at his aching cock. He could cum in a heartbeat if his touch weren’t muddled through the thick fabric of his suit, if he could just shift himself until the plug pressed directly against that spot inside him that made him see stars and spots and everything in between. 

“Tony,” Peter groans, dragging out the syllables. 

“What is it, kid? Tell me. I’d really love to hear a lengthy, dirty monologue from you right now. I’m all ears.” 

“Wish you were here,” Peter says, hips canting up from the roof to press his cock harder into his palm. 

“What if I were?” Tony asks. “Tell me what’s going on in your sordid little mind, Parker.” 

“Want to ride you,” Peter admits, gasping for air. “Push you down onto this rooftop, hold the plug against my cock and sit on yours, ride you until I cum and then leave you here, you jerk, you, you downright meany—” 

“Whoa,” Tony says, dropping from the sky, his voice slightly inhuman from being inside his suit. The approach and descent have Peter’s heart hammering, having gone unnoticed thanks to the vibration of the plug so loud from inside his suit. “Did you just call me a meany? Were you going to finish that with meany- _head_? Because if so, we need to talk. Words hurt, baby.” 

“Tony,” Peter gasps. Though the suit doesn’t hold the remote in its metallic hand, Tony turns off the vibrations from inside the suit. Peter gets his bearings just long enough to roll up onto the balls of his feet, shooting a web at Tony’s suit that leaves him stuck to the roof like a man who’s stepped in quicksand. 

The suit’s faceplate retracts. “Not cool! I come here to surprise you at work like any good boyfriend might, and this is how you repay me?”

“No,” Peter says, pressing the emblem on his suit until it grows slack, until he can slip it off his shoulders and bare himself to the cool night. “No, I have _different_ ideas about how to repay you.” 


	39. Peter/Tony "Countdown"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Alcohol. 
> 
> Prompt: Peter begs Mr. Stark to be his New Year's Kiss.

In the third hour of the party, Pepper at last manages to corner him beside the band. Tony has been avoiding her all night, strategically placing waiters and waitresses laden with trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne between them, because while Tony wouldn’t put it past her to tackle him to the floor, he doesn’t believe she would accost an innocent. Her face is flushed, whether from anger or alcohol, Tony can’t say. 

“Tony,” she says, urging him to the side of the room away from the blaring swing band and writhing mass of bodies. “You need to cut off Peter.” 

Ah. Until then, Tony couldn’t have been sure why Pepper was hunting him during the party like a shark smelling blood (there were a whole host of potential reasons to be fair), but this reason—it’s not a bad one. Against his will, he glances towards the dance floor where Peter is currently being taunt how to Charleston by Natasha, whom Tony doesn’t believe he has ever seen smile nor laugh so much in one evening. His mouth goes dry at the way Peter looks, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, the sleeves of his dress-shirt rolled up, cheeks flushed. 

“What?” Tony shouts. “I can’t hear you, this band is so goddamn loud, I love it though, don’t you? What a way to bring in the 20’s, am I right?” 

“Cut! Him! Off!” she says through her teeth. “If the press get wind of us letting a minor—” 

“Peter is twenty!” 

“Which is underage, Tony, don’t undermine me.” 

“Come on, Pep,” Tony pleads. “Look at him, he’s having such a good time. If he’s going to drink, I’d rather he do it surrounded by the Avengers and SHIELD employees than anyone else in the world. That way we’ll have tons of documentation to blackmail him wi—ow, God, woman! Mercy!” 

“Take him outside,” she insists. “Get him some air to help him sober up, and tell the bar not to serve him another drop. I mean it. If you’re quick enough, you can make it back inside in time for the countdown.”

Sighing, Tony relents. While his guest rooms were open to any Avenger who became too intoxicated to walk, drive, or portal themselves back home to the proper dimension, he isn’t sure if May expects Peter home at a decent hour or not. Sending the kid back to her drunk would be a poor idea in the best of terms. 

Wading through the dance floor (nearly getting elbowed by an over-enthusiastic SHIELD agent who is flapping a little too enthusiastically), Tony approaches Peter and Natasha with his eyebrows up. She’s dressed the way many other party-goers are, in typical Roaring Twenties style. The beads on her dress glitter in the light and with every energetic step. Peter is no less a specimen, though he has shed his pinstripe overcoat. The vest beneath fits him like a glove, emphasizing his trim waist. 

There’s no harm in looking, he thinks. And he certainly can’t help the images his brain conjures at a moment’s notice. Tony has had enough with trying to keep a leash on the things that are beyond his control. 

He places a hand on Peter’s back as the music changes to a ballad. The kid’s skin burns his palm, shirt thin and nearly see-through with sweat. Peter glances over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded. They widen at the sight of Tony, a smile blooming brighter and more beautiful than any flower Tony’s ever seen. 

“Mr. Stark!” Peter says. At once, he abandons Natasha (who slips off into the crowd with a shimmer of beads, ever adept at knowing when to drift back into the shadows), and throws his arms around Tony’s neck, plastering himself to the billionaire and beginning a drunken sway, like Tony has simply tapped Nat’s shoulder and asked, can I cut in?

He lets them sway together for a few long moments, keeping his hands primly above his partner’s waist. When he feels Peter turn his head so that his breath fans hot against Tony’s neck, he works to clear his throat of the knot that’s tied itself there. Even though it hurts to pull away from the kid’s drunken embrace, he does it. He’s good at doing the things that hurt. 

“Come on. Outside, Valentino,” Tony rumbles into his ear. 

Peter follows happily enough, stopping to hug Clint who is equally as drunk. They spend a long, semi-homo-erotic moment pressed together, like lovers who are seeing each other for the first time and not teammates who were wearing feathered headbands and taking photos together in the picture booth thirty minutes before. 

“Alright there, come on,” Tony says, coaxing Peter away. “I hate to break up such an arousing display of affection, but I need to get this little spider outside, stat. Pepper’s orders! Pepper’s orders!”

The last thirty feet to the balcony are traversed with Tony carrying most of Peter’s weight, the kid’s breath still hot on Tony’s neck while he babbles about how swell the party is, how much fun everyone seems to be having. It’s charming enough to listen to. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the suave singer of the band murmurs into the microphone as Tony opens the door to the balcony, letting in blustery air that sobers even him. The room behind them falls as quiet as it can when filled with eighty of Tony’s closest friends and loved-ones who have been indulging on authentic French champagne for the last three hours, glossy eyes turning towards the platform where the band sits above them all. “It is five minutes until midnight. We encourage you to find your favorite guy, gal, or pal to ring in the New Year with. If anyone has any declarations of love to impart, now is the time.”

“Where’s Bruce?” Thor shouts at the top of his lungs. 

Howls go up around the room until Tony closes the door and cuts them all off. 

“Do you think we’re going to miss Thor make a move on Dr. Banner?” Peter asks. He’s not slurring but there’s nothing sober about him, eyes glossy, swaying where he stands with Tony between him and the balcony. The cold air enhances the pink flush in his cheeks, and the kid shivers, sweat cooling in the breeze. For a moment, Tony gets an idea in his head of taking off his jacket and slinging it over the kid’s shoulders. He bats it away. 

“Even if we do, there will be footage I’m sure,” Tony says. “How are you feeling kid? Tell me the alphabet backwards.”

Peter laughs, head tilting back. Tony’s eyes drop to the pale, unmarked throat before he urges them away. “Come on, Mr. Stark. Give me something hard—I mean! That’s not what I meant. You know what I meant. Not hard like your—not that you _are_ —fuck.” 

“God, I hope FRIDAY is filming this right now. Who am I kidding, FRI sees all,” says Tony, glancing out over the city. Manhattan is lit up like a Christmas tree, full of people eager to leave the year behind, hopeful that the future is as bright as the city lights. Tony cranes his neck to take in the party beyond the frosted glass, everyone moving like a movie with the sound off. “Take some deep breaths, Pete, try and clear your head, okay? We’ll both be back in there before midnight.” 

A firm presence leans against him. He nearly jerks away (like he doesn’t know who it is, like there’s anyone else out on this empty balcony save for them). Peter presses his nose to the crook of Tony’s neck and breathes in, one hand resting firm against Tony’s hip. “Is Miss Potts going to be your New Year’s Kiss, Mr. Stark?”

Heart in his throat, Tony struggles to respond. This close, he can smell the kid’s body spray and beneath it the sharp but not unpleasing scent of his sweat. Peter’s eyes glitter black, like lights off of the Bay. Instinct urges him to set Peter straight, to remind him that he and Pepper broke it off months ago, and the relationship had been more platonic than romantic even long before then. Instead, all he says is, “No.” 

Peter hums. “Do you know who I want to be _my_ Kiss?” 

Tony swallows. “I can make an educated guess. Kid—” 

Peter’s hands fist the fabric of Tony’s suit. His strength is unmatched, pulling the billionaire close until they are flush against each other. He’s hard in his JC Penney dress slacks, hips leaning forward to nudge against Tony’s hipbone until the kid groans, a sound that makes Tony’s mouth go dry and his heart pound like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage. “Please, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was a little boy, ‘m a man now, aren’t I? That’s what you said to Captain Rogers when he didn’t want me on the team.” 

“Peter,” Tony groans, glancing back towards the party. No one has taken any notice of their absence. “Come on, kid. You know I can’t.” 

“Why not?” Peter breathes, pauses to press his lips chastely to Tony’s shoulder. “Because you’re straight?” 

Tony sighs. “Don’t insult me like that; you know I’m not—” 

“Because I’m underage?” 

“I know you aren’t—” 

“Because you aren’t interested in me?” 

“I am—” He snaps his teeth shut on the words just a moment too late. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could reach out and snatch the words right back out of the air, hide them somewhere down deep. He mutters under his breath, “Fuck.” 

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, smiling with glassy eyes. He looks more tired than drunk, exhausted, too young and with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And Tony can’t add himself to that burden; he just can’t. “I already knew. But if you want to kiss me, and if I want to kiss you, then why can’t we?”

“You make it sound easy,” Tony says roughly. Something in him, some fault line that has existed in relative inactivity until now while the pressure builds and builds—it finally snaps. He grips Peter’s wrist which was creeping around towards his tense abs, towards the bottom of his vest like he’s going to dip it right down the front of Tony’s pants. Pulling him into the shadows away from the glass doors, Tony presses Peter against the wall of the Tower and looms over him. “You make it sound innocent. You think that a kiss will be good enough for me? I’m the most famous glutton alive, kid. If I pour myself a drink, I have to have another. If I kiss you—it won’t be enough for me. It will never be enough for me.”

“You act like I could ever want you to let me go,” Peter laughs. 

Inside, the countdown begins, the roar of the entire room just audible through the glass doors of the balcony. 

**10**

“Please—” 

**9**

“No, Peter, I can’t.” 

**8**

“I’m begging you— **7** —Please— **6** —Even if this is all I ever get— **5** —then at least let me have this— **4** —this one moment— **3** —Tony, please— **2** —”

—And _one_ must come next. It must. But Tony doesn’t hear it, not for the rush of blood in his ears (his heart, that’s his heartbeat pounding away), not for the wind whistling around them when he closes the distance between them, presses them chest-to-chest so that he can capture Peter’s mouth with his own. It’s not a first kiss, no tentative questioning movements. It’s a well-seasoned lovers’ kiss, fierce and wet, a tsunami that drags him under until Peter’s all that’s in his mind, his mouth, his lungs, his scarred chest and broken-open heart.

When they part (Peter breathing the softest _thank you_ ), their mouths are raw. The cheers from inside might as well be for them for the way Tony’s heart has swelled. He rakes his eyes over Peter’s face, seeing him with new eyes even as the kid gives him a sad, trembling smile. 

“That’s it, then,” Peter says, tears glittering in his lashes. “Party’s over, huh?”

“No,” Tony promises, taking the kid’s hand and pressing his lips to the arch of his knuckles. “I meant what I said; I haven’t had enough of you, Peter. The party is just starting, kid. Come on, let’s get out of the cold.” 


	40. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Warm"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. Cockwarming. Edging. Spanking. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony comes home to find Peter keeping Bucky's cock warm.

Tony stops in the foyer, tie half-loosened, eyes riveted to what he’s seeing. He clears his throat, catching the attention of the younger member of the couple occupying his couch. Peter’s face is flushed dark. At the sight of Tony, his eyes widen, and he buries his face back into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the mimicry of shyness though there is nothing shy about the compromising position he’s caught them in.

“Hi, loves of mine,” Tony says. “I thought tonight was the night your show came on—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Bucky says, eyes glued to the television.

Tony eyebrows lift toward his hairline. So Tony _hadn’t_ been wrong about the day of the week, but that didn’t explain the sight that had greeted him on his dark leather sofa. Bucky sits ass-in-seat staring holes at the television where some medieval fantasy political drama plays out. He’s dressed in his casual clothes, sweats and one of the t-shirts that bare his metallic arm.

Peter is naked, ass-in-seat—if Bucky’s thighs count as a seat (which they do, they very much do). He’s facing away from the television, which seems a little counterproductive to watching their show, but what does Tony know? Judging by the way Peter struggles, shifting and whining in the back of his throat, Bucky’s cock must be buried deep inside him. Seated-in-ass, so to speak. Bucky’s arms wrap around their younger lover’s narrow waist keeping him pinned while he struggles to fuck himself.

“ _To-ny_ ,” Peter groans, drawing out the syllables obscenely.

Bucky slaps a hand against his flank. The sound is surely worse than the bite of the spank, but it makes Tony wince all the same. Peter falls quiet, though his wiggling doesn’t cease.

Tony takes quiet steps, circumnavigating the couch until he is behind it and able to reach out and coax Peter’s head from its hiding place in Bucky’s neck. Peter’s eyes are rimmed-red, lips raw and trembling. The sight makes Tony’s cock jerk in his slacks.

The television show goes to commercial. All at once, Bucky’s arms loosen their hold and Peter pulls away from where he was pressed to the broad, clothed chest. Between them, the young man’s cock was stiff and red and slick from his desperation. Peter braces his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and sets a brutal, self-serving pace as he chases his orgasm.

“Peter wouldn’t quit talking my ear off,” Bucky says through his teeth. Hands at his sides, he makes no move to help the kid. “Only one way to shut him up—but I said, no way in hell am I going to miss my goddamn show.”

“Understandable,” Tony says, raking his eyes over Peter who is the epitome of sex with his tousled hair, his straining muscles slick with sweat and flushed with arousal.

“So he gets commercial breaks to ride me. If he gets one of us off, I’ll let him sit beside me to watch instead of having to catch the episode highlights from Twitter.”

“You’re evil,” Tony says. “I love it. So catch me up—what’s this show about?”

Bucky gives a brief synopsis, his eyes closed and head tilted back, not entirely unaffected by their lover even if he has an excellent poker face, even if Peter loves to feel like he’s a desperate mess while Bucky is unmoved.

Peter groans, nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders. “I’m close,” he pants, mouth twisting in premature victory. Tony glances down to where the younger man’s cock bobs, untouched and aching between the two men’s torsos. It’s flushed dark and dribbling, surely moments from cumming.

And then the episode resumes. Bucky’s arms snake around Peter’s trim waist firmer than iron manacles. He pulls Peter flush to his chest, halting any thrusting, any grinding, any chance at an orgasm. The sound that is pulled from Peter’s throat is downright tortured, his small hands making fists where he clutches at the fabric of Bucky’s shirt.

“Please, Bucky, _please_ , let me cum,” Peter whispers, voice on the verge of tears.

Tony reaches out and places a firm spank on the meatiest part of Peter’s hip. “Quiet, baby,” he says, finally loosening his tie fully. “The show’s back on.”


	41. Peter/Tony "Practice"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: Peter begs Tony to help him practice kissing before he has to do it onstage during a play.

The antique clock from the dining room is spread open on Tony’s lab table like a frog ripe for dissecting. Over one hundred years old, it had been a gift of gratitude from some European royal prick to Tony’s great-grandmother. It had survived two World Wars, crossing an ocean, and Tony’s great-uncle who had hocked several priceless familial artifacts to sustain his drug habit in the 1960’s. Tony doesn’t plan to let it die today—not under his capable hands.

His lab table (which is really just a table demoted to his use in the corner of his father’s basement lab in their Manhattan mansion) is littered with springs and sprockets and gears. Everything is laid just so, and with his memory, putting it back together shouldn’t be a problem. He just had to see the inside of it, to run his fingers along the gears, to see what made it _tick_.

Eating dinner every night and being forced to stare at the thing without being allowed to look inside it was veritable torture. As long as he remembers exactly how to put it back together again when he’s finished, his father and mother will never know—

“ _Tony_!”

Jolting, Tony drops a spring. It bounces into the depths of the lab causing him to curse. When he glances up, he sees Peter in the doorway and all thoughts of the clock evaporate.

Since their first meeting in the Gifted and Talented program at their primary private school, they had been like oil and water: Tony vivacious and unable to sit still or close his mouth and Peter quiet and slow to speak or act without thinking it through. Over the years, Tony liked to believe that their finer qualities had rubbed off on the other, taming Tony’s wild ways and helping coax Peter from his shell.

Not that Tony didn’t wish he could rub off on Peter in other far more specific ways. Tony’s attraction for his best friend had been slow to bloom, something that he hadn’t become aware of until it had taken root in every corner of his mind. It made perfect sense: Peter was beautiful in a very non-traditional way, a fascinating mixture of femininity and masculinity that had Tony’s bisexual libido singing; he was smart as a whip, the only person in Tony’s life who had ever beaten him at chess; and he was _kind_ , one of the few who could tolerate Tony’s moods and snarky personality.

Like their friendship, it felt so easy. There was no sense of urgency to make a move on Peter, to try to force anything to happen. Tony knew better than anyone that trying to hold onto sand would only make it slip through his fingers.

Right now, the striking features of Peter’s face are twisted in anxiety, cheeks red from how quickly he must have rushed across the city. Gut clenching in worry, Tony asks, “What is it? Don’t tell me that Mr. Liu is closing that Chinese place we always go to for lunch. I’ve experienced enough disappointment in my life; that might be the thing that tips me over the edge—”

Peter holds up a flier that has been crumpled in his sweaty grip. The front of it is mostly wrinkled into oblivion, but he recognizes the logo for the local theater group that Peter’s aunt had pressed him to join at the beginning of the summer. Tony had helped Peter rehearse the lines for the audition, mostly adding inappropriate improvisation that had left Peter red faced from blushes and laughter.

 _“I got the part!”_ Peter shrieks.

“What the _fuck_!” Tony shouts. He stands from his stool. “Get your shoes on, we’re going out to celebrate—oh your shoes are already on. Let me get _my_ shoes on—”

“We don’t have time to celebrate,” Peter says, one hand reaching up to pull anxiously at his curls.

“The play isn’t until the fall, what are you talking about?”

“The other lead is _Bucky Barnes_!”

Tony blinks, crossing his arms. What the fuck is Bucky Barnes even doing participating in some po-dunk theater troupe? The last Tony had heard, he’d received a scholarship to play football at some Ivy League university on the West Coast. Barnes was a god from the moment he transferred to their school in his Sophomore year. Built like a sculpture that escaped from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, he was tall and stacked and so fucking handsome. His reputation for being a ladies’ man had been well known among both student and faculty.

“I’m not seeing the problem,” Tony says. “Barnes is a nice guy—”

“Tony,” Peter says, red faced. “Our characters are supposed to—” Peter mashes his hands together.

“Oh my God, you’re going to have to _fight_ Barnes on stage? That’s going to be David and Goliath: the Sequel. Jesus.”

“No! In the script, our characters, they—” More hand mashing, but softer, more smearing and less banging. Tony squints, his lips pursing in confusion. “Oh my god! We’re supposed to _kiss_. Like, French kiss!”

Tony whistles. “And the problem is?”

Peter slumps down on the steps that lead into the lab. He is the picture of dejection with his elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands, the flier fluttering to the floor. With all the care of approaching a wounded animal, Tony creeps across the lab until he can sit on the step beside Peter. His hand hovers over the thin shoulder wondering if it’s liable to bitten off if he makes contact.

“I’ve never kissed anybody,” Peter mutters in misery. “Everybody knows that Bucky is a big playboy. I’m going to look like a fucking idiot up there, Tony.”

“That’s not true,” Tony says. He lets the hand come down, and Peter leans into it until Tony must slip his arm around the smaller boy. Heart in his throat at the contact, Tony presses on: “You aren’t even nineteen. Who cares if you haven’t kissed anyone?”

“Me,” Peter says sulkily. “Everybody is going to _know_.”

“Come on, it’s not like you’re going to suck a dick onstage. You just—” shifting away, Tony presses his hands together, mimicking Peter. “—kiss! It’s not rocket science.”

“Rocket science I’d be good at,” snarks Peter.

“Look, if it’s bothering you so much, you just need to get some practice. Offstage, preferably. I’m sure we know someone who would be willing to help you out. Let me go upstairs and make a few calls; I’ll—”

“I’m not going to give my first kiss to one of your one night stands.”

Tony takes Peter firmly by the chin, turns his face and plants a smacking kiss on Peter’s thin lips. When he pulls back, Peter looks gobsmacked, eyes wide, mouth open and sputtering. “There,” Tony says. “Your first kiss. Over. Done with. See? Was that such a big deal?”

Peter looks down at his lap, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Trademark anxious Peter move. “Well. Yeah.”

Did Tony make a mistake? Maybe Peter wanted his first kiss to be with someone special, and Tony swept in like an absolute ass-hat and ruined it. The brief flutter of happiness in his gut at kissing Peter turns sharp and sours. “Hey—I probably shouldn’t have done that. But now it’s over with, right? Water under the bridge. Why aren’t you looking at me? Fuck. I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“No,” Peter assures, but he can still only glance at Tony for brief moments and from the corner of his eye. His shoed-foot nudges at the wrinkled flier on the floor. “Actually, I’m glad it happened with a—a friend, you know what I mean? At least I know that you’ll always be special to me and I’ll never have to regret it.”

Tony brightens. Peter has that affect on him. The fluttering returns in full force, and now that he knows Peter isn’t angry for his impulsive, rude risk, he can appreciate even such a chaste kiss. He was close enough to smell Peter’s aftershave (like he grows enough facial hair to need to shave). Peter’s lips were softer than he’d been expecting. Bucky is very lucky.

“Good!” Tony claps Peter right above the knee. The muscle beneath his palm jumps taking Tony’s heart with it. He removes his hand quickly. “You had me shaking in my Calvin Klein’s, Pete.”

“No, I was just thinking—” Peter cuts himself off. Tony watches as he sucks his cheek between his teeth, lips puckering.

“What is it?” Tony prompts.

“Just—maybe I know someone I could practice on.”

“Text them while we get Chinese, okay? I’ve got a craving for dim—oh.” Because Peter is giving him this look. It’s a coy, shy thing, through his lashes, eyebrows up. Tony doesn’t have a reputation for being one of the brightest minds in Manhattan for nothing. He can follow along well enough. “What, _me_?”

“I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want to help,” Peter rushes to assure him. “But like I said, you’re my best friend. I know that I can trust you, I know that you won’t make fun of me—okay, I know you won’t make fun of me much.”

“And everybody knows I’ve been around the block,” Tony mutters, smirking.

“You—you have practical knowledge!”

“Plenty,” Tony says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Peter groans, dropping his head back into his hands. “I regret even asking.”

“Hey,” Tony says firmly. “I didn’t say _no_ , did I?”

-

The two of them sit with their backs against the headboard of Tony’s bed, Peter’s freshly printed script between them. While he was familiar with the lines Peter read for his audition, that section of writing hadn’t contained the scene between Peter and Bucky.

“This is softcore porn,” Tony mutters, scanning the pages for every interaction between the two. “Definitely not going to be anything like the kiss I gave you downstairs.”

“You see why I’m panicking?” Peter groans, letting his head fall back to thud against the wood headboard.

“Don’t panic,” Tony says, shutting the script with a flourish. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be a pro. Come here.”

Peter blinks. “Where? I’m here.”

Tony pats his lap. Legs outstretched as they are, it creates a nice seat for Peter to rest his cute ass on. But the younger teen already looks scandalized by this, his eyes wide. “What do I need to sit there, for?” Peter asks.

“It’s comfortable,” Tony says. “Trust me. We might be here for a while.”

Face flushed, Peter kneels up, making his way across the bed. One hand rests flat against the headboard for support while he hesitates before throwing one slim leg over Tony’s wider thighs.

Tony has been around the block. He enjoys sex, and as long as he acts with consideration for his partner and for his health in mind, he doesn’t believe in modesty. Dozens of partners of all genders throughout his teenage years has left him with plenty of—what did Peter call it? Practical knowledge? But of all the lewd acts he’s committed and had committed on him, his breath still catches when Peter comes to rest demurely in his lap, thighs spread obscenely wide, their positioning making him just a hairsbreadth taller. Against his will, he feels his cock stir. There’s no chance of making it through this situation without a boner.

“Come on, Pete,” Tony says, licking his lips. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He sees Peter steel himself, taking a deep breath, lips pressed into a thin line. Maybe he’s trying to be less sexual by reaching both hands up to plant them on the headboard instead of on Tony’s shoulders, but Tony just feels surrounded in the most sexual way. Then Peter leans forward and crosses the last few inches to press their mouths together.

Tony inhales deeply to get a lungful of Peter’s aftershave. He doesn’t have anywhere to touch except for Peter, so he reaches one hand up and cups his jaw, coaxing him to turn his head to the proper angle. When Tony tries to move against Peter’s mouth, he finds it unyielding in a way that isn’t conductive for kissing.

Pulling back the slightest inch, he’s treated to the way Peter’s breaths are already heaving. Nerves, surely. “Calm down,” Tony murmurs. “It’s fine. Just me and I think you’re doing great. Relax your mouth a little bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter breathes.

They kiss again, and Peter’s mouth is soft and pliant. Tony groans encouragingly in his throat and Peter shivers on his lap, arms tensing where they bracket Tony’s head. The soft sound of relaxed kissing fills the room, gentle sucking kisses from mouths just barely parted. After a few minutes, Peter relaxes into it completely, one hand even coming down from the headboard to rest on Tony’s shoulder, thumb brushing against his neck.

Still, Tony waits, kissing chastely and tenderly like he could do this all day. He could, too. He could spend forever right here underneath Peter, tasting the sweetest mouth that’s ever sassed him. He uses his free hand to hold onto Peter’s thin hip, intending to keep him far away from the erection straining at Tony’s jeans.

They’d both have to be dead not to be turned on. It’s just science, just a physical response. Sure, for Tony there are deeper feelings, but Peter’s never given any indication that those feelings are returned. No. The way he whines in his throat, breathy little gasps during the brief moments they part—that’s just a normal physical response.

So Tony waits and waits until Peter’s physical responses urge him forward, waits until a soft, shy tongue sneaks out to run against the seam of Tony’s mouth. Lips smiling, Tony returns the favor, both of their tongues coming together. The sound Peter makes his downright indecent, his grip tightening on Tony’s shoulder. Tony groans in response, feeling blunt nails dig into his skin through his shirt.

Peter pulls away briefly, lips swollen and slick. “Am I doing okay?” he gasps.

“B +,” Tony says. “Here, try this—”

When their mouths meet this time, Tony lets his tongue slip past Peter’s lips and drag sensually against the younger teen’s. He plunders Peter’s mouth, gentle but thorough, tracing the ridge of his teeth and palate. When Peter coaxes back with his own tongue, Tony takes it into his mouth and suckles on it—the sound Peter makes is nothing short of desperate, a muted cry. He shifts where he rests on Tony’s lap and it’s Tony’s turn to jolt because Peter is hard.

“Christ,” Tony gasps, Peter licking at his open mouth.

“Sorry,” Peter says, voice nearly a whine.

“It’s fine,” Tony says. On a whim, he drags Peter’s hips forward until he nudges against his own cock, aching and tenting his jeans. “I’m hard too; it’s normal—”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter says, even as his hips rock helplessly, his back arching into an obscene angle so that his cock rubs against Tony’s in a way that makes them both see stars, hearts pounding in their chests. “Just biology, right?”

“Right,” Tony says, reaching up to pull Peter’s chin back towards his own eager mouth.

Their kiss is filthy, the soft wet sucking loud in the room, punctuated with the rasp of their jeans as their cocks drag and drag and drag. Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s hip, coaxing him to press harder. Neither of them shows any signs of slowing even though Peter is kissing like a pro now, no awkwardness or hesitation. Both of their mouths are raw and swollen from this practice that has gone beyond the realm of practice, and Tony can’t help but wonder—is Peter kissing him because he likes it? Because he likes Tony? Or is he just chasing what feels good?

And fuck, does it feel good. The pressure is just the right side of painful, and Tony feels his balls drawing up tight, desperate for a release that is within reach. He can’t remember the last time he’s cum in his jeans (probably when he was just freshly turned-teen grinding against the open cradle of a high school girl’s hips), but his release is fast approaching now, and he’s loathe to stop it, even if it means embarrassing himself—

Then Peter stiffens, mouth opening but not for kissing. So that he can gasp, head jerking back, entire body rigid except for his hips which slow and deepen their grind. He is cumming, Tony thinks, eyes wide as he takes in the flush on his best friend’s cheeks, the way his eyelashes rest against his cheeks, throat constricting. Leisurely, Tony lets his hands slip from Peter’s hips back to the lush curve of his ass, helping him drag out his thrusts and ride out his orgasm, and the end for him comes when Peter sags against him, head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder, whining long and high, “ _Tony_.”

“Fuck,” Tony groans through his teeth, hips coming up off the bed as he cums in his jeans, thrusting up against the hard body above him. His head falls back, thudding against the headboard painfully but he can barely feel it when he’s cumming against _Peter_. Listening to Peter make small noises of pleasure against his throat.

“Did you—?” Peter asks, panting. Tony nods. Peter buries his face back in Tony’s shoulder, hiding. Whispered, Tony feels his lips move against his skin as Peter mouths (maybe to himself), “Oh my god.”

“Try not to do that on stage with Bucky, okay?” Tony says, patting at Peter’s shoulder and then wrapping his arm around the trim waist to pull him in for a hug.

Peter nods, gasping. “Noted. Don’t think that will be a problem to be honest.”

Tony laughs, and inside he thinks, heart so achingly full: _good._


	42. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Leaked"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. non-consensually leaked sex tape. 
> 
> Prompt: Bucky/Tony/Peter's sex tape is leaked to the public.

Eight hours after the tape drops and it’s chaos in the Tower. Peter sits, dazed on a stool at the kitchen island with his elbows on the marble and his head in his hands. Bucky stands at the window watching the sprawling city below, probably wishing he could step on them all for the way they’ve made Peter cry. He’s violent protective like that. Pepper’s voice is a constant soundtrack, the gaps filled by the voices of the PR reps and lawyers they’ve brought in.

Eight months ago, an employee was hired. SI has some of the toughest background checks and vetting in the industry, and somehow this mole made it through. They lasted through the probationary period, they were even promoted because of their dedication to their work. And last night, they’d logged onto private SI servers, hacked through Tony (and Peter’s) personal firewalls, and dumped as much information as they could onto the web before FRIDAY shut them down.

Dumped were private, personal information of the Avengers (nothing SHIELD classified, but Tony and Peter’s personal pocketbooks with addresses and phone numbers), plenty of Tony’s personal tax information that had not been previously publicized, and…the sex tape.

There copy had been on the private email Tony secured for him. Now it’s being shown (heavily edited) on the news, but Peter doesn’t need to watch it. He _remembers_ it. Peter had been the one to record it— _without asking his lovers_ —and now it had come back to haunt him. How many times had he watched it when Tony and Bucky were away on business, fisting his cock, forcing himself to hold off his orgasm until Tony and Bucky’s in the video, when Bucky had pulled out of his ass and Tony had pulled out of his mouth and they’d rolled him over, jerking off over him, cum splattering his heaving chest.

The penthouse door opens, and Peter glances up with misty eyes, sure that it will be another lawyer, but instead it’s Tony. Tony in his suit, come from halfway across the world. He looks fine. Calm, firm when he guides Pepper and the PR reps and the lawyers out.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter croaks 

“You should be,” Tony says, removing his suit jacket. He hangs it in the closet.

Bucky turns his head. “What a shitty fucking thing to say, Tony. He feels bad enough as it is.”

Tony holds up a hand. “Let me get this out, Northern Lights. Peter Pumpkin Eater? You should be sorry. Can you imagine how it felt to be in the middle of a business meeting in Norway and glance down at my phone to see all of our scrambled cocks on Fox News and the like? Have you ever had to hide an erection in front of 11 of the sternest Norwegians, Peter?”

Peter blinks through his tears. “An—a—huh?”

Tony begins to undress: stepping out of his shoes, undoing his belt, and unbuttoning his dress shirt until it hangs open like the most expensive cotton decoration. “An erection, Peter. The next time you make my cock that hard from 6000 miles away, you’d better prepare for the spanking of your life when I get home to you. But now? I think I’m mostly just interested in reenacting that video you took. Care to join me, Buck?”

“No wonder they call you a genius.” Bucky sheds his t-shirt in one smooth, fluid motion. There’s already a noticeable bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans, and Peter’s throat clenches up tight at the sight of it.

By the time both of their hard cocks are out, Peter has slipped off of his stool and onto his knees on the floor, eyes flickering from one erection to the other. His eyes are still tender from all the tears he’s cried—but he thinks that maybe he’s cried the last of them. He opens his mouth, instead.


	43. Peter/Tony/Bucky "Compete"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nff. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony and Bucky have a competition, judged by Peter.

“This is a lot,” Peter murmurs, eyes tracking the two men’s movements on the bed. The younger man’s cheeks are flushed a pretty pink edging towards a more hysteric red. He keeps licking his lips, like they’re dry. His hand reaches out towards the man on the left in front of him, but his fingers hesitate over pale, burning skin. “Can I touch? Is that—not against the rules, I guess. But is it fair?”

Tony sucks a breath in deep through his nose. “It’s only fair if whatever you do is mirrored on both of us.”

Both of Peter’s older lovers are laying, side by side on the bed. They’re naked, save for Tony who is still wearing his watch. But it’s a very nice watch. Each man is reaching out with one hand towards the other, jerking off the person next to them. It’s been this way for—Peter glances at the clock on the nightstand—for ten minutes. Both are covered in a glossy sheen of sweat, and Peter wishes that he had two mouths so that he could lick lines up their abs at the same time.

Tony and Bucky are both pulling out all the stops, working hard to make the other cum first. Whoever holds off will get to fuck Peter, and the boy has been breathless since Tony suggested the game. He feels so powerful watching these two incredible men compete for the chance to make love to him. His own cock bobs, neglected between his legs. His eyes are glued to the most sensual sight he’s ever seen. Something Tony does with his wrist makes Bucky gasp and then groan, long and low through his teeth.

Peter has to touch—he must. He reaches out with both hands and touches the closest thigh of each of them. Tony flinches in surprise, eyes clenched shut. He slits them open to stare down the bed at Peter and give him a feral smile.

“Who’s going to win,” Peter wonders out loud. “Tony’s age works in his favor. He’s naturally got more stamina, these days.”

“I resent that,” Tony grits through his teeth. “God—fuck—fuck Bucky.”

“Bucky’s got the serum on his side. He’s fucked one of us stupid and then pulled out just to fuck the other of us. You’re both very, very evenly matched.”

“This isn’t a spectator sport, Pete,” Bucky says, mouth pressed into a line to keep from laughing.

“Why not? I’m spectating.”

Then Peter kneels up. His cock is aching, balls drawn up tight. He wants someone in his ass, and now, but he knows these men. They could work each other without mercy for half the night, and while that would be fun for Peter, this would be more fun. “Watch me,” he says. Both men turn their eyes to him, and Peter presses one of his hands to his bare chest, dragging it down only to stop at one of his nipples, pinching it gently. He lets his head fall back, mouth open. It’s pornographic, probably, but the noise Tony makes at the sight is worth it. Then Peter’s hand continues south, fingertips down and eager, and the first touch as he wraps his fist around his cock has him groaning out loud.

“Fuck!” Bucky shouts. Tony moans something illegible—and then both men are cumming, bucking into each other’s grips, cum spurting from both of their incredible cocks to drip down their knuckles.

Peter sits back on his heels, pouting. “Great. Now who’s going to fuck me!”

Tony slaps a hand at the meaty part of Peter’s thigh to make him yelp. Bucky laughs at the noise. “Give us ten minutes, doll, and we’ll take you apart.”


	44. Peter/Tony "Home"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none. 
> 
> Prompt: Flash thinks Peter is lying about living with Tony Stark.

“I can’t believe he let’s you up here, Penis,” Flash mutters. He’s walking the perimeter of the room taking in the penthouse: the incredible view from the windows, the framed photo of the Avengers on the wall, all the glassy, modern furniture. It’s a beautiful room; Tony designed it.

“I live here, Flash,” Peter says flatly. “Tony and I are dating. I moved in, like, three weeks ago.”

“Sure,” Flash says, rolling his eyes. “Tony fucking Stark, and some pissant from Queens. That’s a match made in Heaven. What is it that he sees in you? Your excellent lineage? Your future prospects? Does May have a dowry of goats and cows to offer him, just like in Biblical times?”

“What the fuck are you even rambling about,” Peter sighs. He sits down heavily on the sofa, opening up his backpack. Teaming up with Flash for their assignment in Calc III at NYU was the last thing he had wanted, but the teacher had paired students together at random. And really? Peter has never been lucky. It was his own fault that, eagerly, he had mentioned, _We can study at Stark Tower!_

Flash sits down next to him. He puts his feet up on the glass coffee table.

“Feet off, heathen,” Peter says.

Flash ignores him. “This is just—so much work. So much effort for you to go through to try to convince me. I bet you’ve even got a room set up too, don’t you? With a toothbrush and a couple of your shirts and everything. _Look, Flash, I live here, Flash, I promise!”_ The other boy snorts. “As if!”

“My room is Tony’s room,” Peter says flatly, flipping through his Calc book. “I don’t use a toothbrush because Tony licks my teeth clean every night. And I don’t need clothes because Tony likes me to walk around completely naked. Can we get this assignment over with? Like, _yesterday_?”

“I’m learning so much about us,” Tony says. Both boys jump, giving him identical expressions of shock: mouths agape, eyes wide. Peter’s softens, his cheeks flushing pink. He takes one of his mechanical pencils and throws it at Tony who barely manages to dodge it in time.

“Jerk,” Peter says, smiling. “Eavesdropping is morally wrong.”

“So is feet on my goddamn coffee table—Pete, kick him for me, won’t you?”

Peter kicks gently at Flash’s legs that drop with a heavy thud. The kid still looks like he’s about to have a stroke. “Mr. Stark,” he says. “I’m, like, your biggest fan.”

Tony pretends not to hear him. He crosses the room to drop a kiss on Peter’s forehead, and then (when the younger man tips his face up) on his lips. “I’m thinking we go out for dinner tonight, so work quick, okay sunbeam?”

“This won’t take long,” Peter says. “Can we go to that nice restaurant we went to for Natasha’s birthday? They served this bread, and I’ve been dreaming about it, I swear—”

“Anything for you, Pete.” He points a finger at Flash, finally acknowledging the other man’s presence. “Keep those feet off my table, understand?”

Flash looks like a bobble-head nodding. Tony loosens his tie, disappearing into their bedroom. Flash’s eyes follow him, mouth still refusing to shut all the way. When his eyes finally return to Peter, they stay wider than usual. Seeing him differently, now, most likely.

“So,” Peter says coolly. “Let’s get to work. I’ve got a date.”


	45. Peter/Tony "Reveal"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some minor violence. Mentions of theoretical pedophilia. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony and Peter reveal their relationship to May.

Tony ducks to avoid being hit by the trinket that smashes the wall behind him. It was an ugly, porcelain statue of a frog by a toadstool, so in Peter’s opinion, no great loss. But if May’s throwing arm gets any better, there might be greater loss—like Tony’s handsome, unmarred face. Thankfully, Tony is adept at dodging blows and missals, ducking behind the couch to dodge a framed picture of May and her best friend. The glass shatters, littering the apartment floor.

“—true what they say about billionaires!” May shouts. One hand is behind her groping at the mantle on the wall, searching for any object that she can chuck across the room. “You’re all perverts! He’s barely eighteen years old, and you’re sixty!”

“Now I’m offended!” Tony says, voice raised. He dares to peak above the back of the couch, ducking again only when May takes the opportunity to throw a half-burned scented candle (Apple and Cinnamon). “I’m not sixty! Peter—tell her I’m not sixty—”

Peter stands at the side of the room, face twisted. Tears cloud his vision. This isn’t at all how he planned this going. It had taken coaxing for Peter to convince Tony to come clean right away, and now it was like both of their worst fears coming true before their eyes. When Peter had stormed Tony’s lab the day after his eighteenth birthday and admitted his feelings, begged the man to make a move, swore that any opposition they faced wouldn’t phase him—he hadn’t known that the opposition would come from May. The woman who had raised him. His friend, his confidante. A woman he looked up to like a mother.

“He was fourteen years old when you met him,” May says, cheeks red with fury. “You disgusting old man! How long have you been grooming him right under my nose?”

“ _I haven’t been!_ ” Tony shouts. Wisely, he stays hiding behind the furniture—this time, the weathered armchair with the afghan on the back.

“Oh, sure you haven’t!” Another item goes flying, a coaster that hits the wall and chips the plaster. Suddenly May freezes, a hand covering her mouth. The blood drains from her face until she turns white as a ghost. She collapses on the couch. “God. I let you take him to Germany. This is my fault, all my fault. Mary and Richard and Ben—they’re all turning in their graves.”

“ _No_.” Peter says. The whole room grows quiet at this first, firm word he’s spoken. “No they aren’t. Don’t you—don’t you disrespect them like that, or me!” He goes to sit next to her, takes one of her shaking hands in his own. She lets him, her fingers lax. There are tears in her eyes that spill over and down her cheeks. “They would be proud. Because I was wise enough to wait, to see if my crush was more than a crush. Because I didn’t put myself or Tony in a poor situation by coming on to him any sooner. Because I found someone who can make me happy, and who can help me grow. And you—you helped that. Don’t you see?”

She squeezes his hand, letting out a shaky breath. One arm comes around him to crush him to her, and she cries into the space between his head and shoulder. “Oh, Pete,” she says through tears. “You’re such an amazing young man.”

Gingerly, Tony stands from where he was hiding in the corner. He feels brave enough to inch towards the armchair and take a seat—May’s head snaps up. She points a finger in warning. “You, Stark, are on thin ice!”

“Thin ice,” Tony mutters, taking off his glasses to rub at his forehead. “Yeah, I got that.”


	46. Peter/Tony "Disorder"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Eating disorders. Anorexia. Excessive Exercise. 
> 
> Prompt: Tony finds out that Peter has an eating disorder.

He wants to say that it would be impossible for a person to not notice what’s happening with Peter, but the truth is that the kid is good at hiding it. When Tony finally realizes, it’s like a dozen different puzzle pieces all sliding into place, and it’s no wonder that no one else noticed. Everyone else just gets snapshots: Peter pushing his food around on his plate one night because he’s ‘not hungry’; Peter taking his dinner in his room because he’s ‘got homework’. Peter sweating because he’s wearing two sweaters (to hide his waning figure, Tony suspects). Steve mentions how Peter is in the training room on the treadmill when he arrives at dawn every morning, and it’s Natasha who mentions how they run side by side in the evenings after Peter has done homework. 

“Working out twice a day, kid?” Tony asks. “What’s the deal? Worried about your figure?” 

Peter stares at him blankly. His face gets red, but it’s nothing like the warmth that blooms across his cheeks after the gentle teasing of the other Avengers. “You’ve got it wrong, Mr. Stark. Some days I work out early, and other days I work out late. I’m Spider-Man, I’ve got to stay fit, right?”

But then one night, while Tony is working through dinner in his lab, JARVIS stops him. “Sir, I feel obliged to alert you that Mr. Parker is ill.” 

Tony lifts up his welding mask. “Say that again, buddy?” 

There is a long moment of silence. 

“My apologies, sir. Mr. Parker has informed me that he is not ill.” 

“So, what? You thought he was sick, but he isn’t?”

“Correct.” 

“And what were his symptoms?” 

“He’s vomiting, sir.” More silence. “My apologies. I’m afraid I can’t say more due to your own privacy protocols. In response to my violation, I am stripping the previous sixty seconds from my private records. Carry on, sir.” 

But Tony can’t carry on. 

When he gets up to the Avenger’s penthouse, dinner is wrapping up. The other Avengers are merry and red-cheeked (from a few empty bottles of wine resting on the counter). Thor is merriest of all, lifting Tony off the ground with his hug and admonishment for missing dinner and ‘working too hard’. 

“Where’s the kid?” Tony asks. 

“His room,” Nat says. “We’re going to watch A Phantom Menace when he’s done in the restroom. Are you joining us?” 

“Nope,” Tony says. “I’m just going to drop something off in Pete’s room and then I’ll be gone.” 

When he opens the door and slips inside, Peter isn’t in the bathroom. He’s sitting on the bed, pale faced, wet-eyed. The look he gives Tony is heartbreaking. It’s empty. His voice sounds like it’s coming from an entirely different person when the kid says: “You know.” 

Tony lets him talk the whole thing out. The pressure, the responsibility that’s on the kid’s shoulders is far too great. At first, he just had nausea that he attributed to anxiety. But then there was the obsession with being ‘fit’, being ‘strong enough’ to fill his Spider-Man duties and to save people. Sometimes, he felt too guilty to eat at all, like he was taking food right from the mouths of other people who need it. 

“It’s not your fault,” Tony says into the boy’s curls when he collapses into him, brittle figure shivering with sobs. “This isn’t your fault, and this isn’t something that you can just stop. We all need help sometimes, kid. I’ve been seeing my therapist for three years now, and I should have been seeing her for ten. You need help carrying this burden. Will you let me help you?”

Tearfully, Peter nods, fingers clinging to Tony’s shirt like it’s a life vest in a sea of sadness. 

They aren’t seeing the same therapist, but the ones Tony has brought in (every other week for himself, and twice a week for Peter) come from the same place. Peter often comes out of sessions quiet, red-eyed, and moody, but Tony likes to think that he sees signs of progress. Peter confides in the other Avengers who all offer him their unconditional support. He asks for softcore monitoring via JARVIS, who will intercept him if he tries to work out too much in any single day. 

And more and more, he comes to Tony. Sometimes just to spend time with him, but other times to confide. 

“I want an apple,” Peter says. He can’t sit still, foot bouncing endlessly. Tony looks up from where he is looking through code for EDITH, and sees the expression on the kid’s face: timid, anxious, like Tony is going to, who knows, maybe mock him for wanting to eat something. 

“I’ve got apples upstairs on the communal floor.” 

“I looked at all of them. I can’t eat them.” 

“I–can I ask why not?” 

Peter’s face gets red. He stares down at his lap, fussing with the knee of his jeans which are wearing thin. The bones of his hands stand out, fine and prominent. He just shrugs. 

“I have some you haven’t seen, up on my private floor. Want to take a look?” 

They do. Peter shakes his head at the bowl of Gala apples. “No. No, I can’t.” 

“Should we–go get some?” 

So then end up in the car. Tony drives, though these days he most often prefers to be driven or take a self-driving car. This needs a more personal touch, he thinks, zipping in and out of traffic. They go to the nearest supermarket, dodging wondrous glances so that Peter can look through every bag, every decorative stack of apples. His face looks torn, downright desperate, hands shaking when he looks at Tony and says that no, none of these will do. 

They try two other markets, neither of which work. 

Peter cries stoically in the car. “We can just go back to the tower,” he says. 

Tony turns away from the tower, headed out of the city. Far out. And then he finds what he needs: a vendor by the road selling produce. Cortland and McIntosh and Empire apples, which Peter picks through delicately, holding them up to the sunlight. What he’s looking for, Tony has no idea. But he’d look himself, if he did. He’d dig through mountains of them. Find the apple in the apple stack. 

At last, Peter finds one: a red delicious, skin so dark it’s nearly purple, bruised, sweet looking. Tony pays the vendor an inordinate amount of money for it. He doesn’t even bother looking, just empties his wallet for it. 

On the way home, Peter eats the entire thing, core and all. He holds the stem and the seeds in his hand, clenching it into a fist, and manages to fall asleep while they wait at a traffic light. And Tony knows that he would do it all again, would search through an ocean, a universe of apples. Whatever it takes. Whatever helps. One step at a time. 


	47. Peter/Tony "Time"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: canonical character death. 
> 
> Prompt: After a long and happy life, Peter is reunited with Tony on the other side.

Peter wakes by a creek.

He follows it all day, and the day never turns into night. The walking doesn’t hurt. When the creek stills enough, he peers into the water and doesn’t recognize himself: there is a younger boy there, a younger _man_ with skin untouched by time, with hair dark and glossy in the sunlight that dapples the ground. But his eyes have played tricks on him before. He flicks the water into waving ripples and continues on, until he finds the path.

The earth here is soft under his feet, not hard like the stones smoothed at the creek’s side. Foliage brushes his bare arms, leafy caresses that tickle, and overhead the tree branches reach out to beckon to each other, lovers that sway to try to touch in the wind. They’re leading him somewhere, maybe.

Peter’s had lovers, he thinks. He also thinks he’s had dreams of this place. Wonderful dreams, that he never wanted to wake from.

Because the path opens up into a clearing. The grass hardly looks real to a city boy, so green and dark and lush. For a moment he stands there on the edge, just to wiggle his toes in it. It doesn’t _hurt_. There are no wrinkles there, no skin gone soft with time, sagging so gently from bone.

Peter looks up, feeling eyes on him. Something has been waiting for him, and it hasn’t been the grass.

A blanket is sprawled in the center of the clearing, and he knows the two figures on it well before he reaches them. The woman has red hair that glints like a penny in the sunlight, and when she sees him coming, she stands, white skirt brushing her bare ankles.

“Peter,” Nat says when she embraces him. They hug for an endless length of time. In these sort of dreams, Peter never wants to let go. It all ends whenever someone lets go. But she coaxes him back, her eyes raking over his face, squinting with her smile. She brushes the curls out of his face and says, “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Tony doesn’t bother standing. Peter waits until Natasha disappears into the treeline before he collapses to his knees. The man hasn’t changed a day since the last time Peter saw him—no, not _that_ time, since the time _before_ the last time. His white shirt is a stark contrast to his tanned skin and the darkness of his facial hair, no hint of gray there. It’s unbuttoned at the throat. Relaxed.

“Hey, kid,” says Tony, voice a warm vibrato. He checks his wrist for a watch that isn’t there, face sly and teasing. “I knew you’d dawdle.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, throat clenched up tight. He presses his palms to his eyes, and his hands don’t hurt—no more arthritis.

“Don’t be,” Tony says, going soft and tender like he never got the chance to be last time. “I’m glad that you took your time, actually. _Really_ glad.”

Peter collapses into him, and he’s real, he’s warm, he smells like Hermes cologne. “It wasn’t easy,” Peter gasps, shaking with tears that don’t come. “I wanted to come sooner.”

“I know.” Tony kisses the crown of Peter’s head. “For once, I’m very glad to have been kept waiting.”

“This isn’t a dream, is it,” Peter says, forehead pressed to Tony’s chest. There’s no heartbeat there.

“No,” Tony agrees, a little regretfully. “You won’t have those. Not anymore.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Peter says, a great peace coming over him. “Not anymore.”

Tony lounges back so they lay side by side, still wrapped around each other, not yet ready to let go.

But they’ve got time.


End file.
